


Draw the Line

by kassidy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Episode: s01e06 The Fix, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Underage Sex, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassidy/pseuds/kassidy
Summary: Ken and Dave meet as kids. Alternates between then and, of course (because I'm me), THE FIX.





	Draw the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sonja, illustrator for the original Starsky and Hutch Blood and Destiny zine back in 2006. She's an incredible artist and amazing friend. And to my girl Cass, always, always and forever. I love you guys.

art by Sonja T.

<http://www.false-colors.net/indexx.html>

 

 

_-1975-_

They beat him in the face, on the head, all over his body. There was a slight  _woosh,_ the displaced air hitting him just before the fists did. He tried to brace himself but the blows were brutal. After a while he could only hang on, try to keep silent, try to draw one more breath.

His nose ran a river of blood. His eyes swelled, his lip split, and his mind threw him in a dark place wandering over a past he’d thought long dead.

 

 

_-1952-_

In a dark closet. Knees huddled against his chest, heart pounding, hearing them call his name, but he couldn’t come out. He was afraid.

He’d taken the bottles from the bar. Had to climb to get them—lots of them, mostly filled with clear shades of amber, though some looked just like water. He’d sneaked the bottles out on the back porch and poured them into the yard one at a time. The smell made his stomach sick. It’d taken a while and he was scared but he listened really hard for footsteps coming after him or voices calling his name and nobody did.

He just wanted to stop him; he wanted his dad to stay his  _dad_  and not become that stranger whose steps didn’t sound right, who stumbled, whose voice was someone else’s, someone that slurred, someone that was mad at him, always. Someone that didn’t care what happened to him.

After he’d finished he went to the hall closet. It smelled a little like mothballs. He buried his nose in the hem of his mom’s coat anyway and breathed deep, trying to get the sharp alcohol smell out of his nose. Then he sat back and looked at the wooden door, followed the line of it up up up until his neck hurt, then back down. He stared at the door and thought about the stranger and if it really was his dad or not.

Six hours after he’d sat down in the bottom of the closet, they found him. Urine leaked and pooled outside the door, giving him away. He didn’t cry. He didn’t say anything and then his father was there. His dad picked him up and talked, his voice soft and grave, but still he wouldn’t speak, not until his dad’s voice turned even softer, like he was about to cry. Then he just said, “Daddy?” and his father hugged him really hard.

And for a long time, the stranger disappeared.

 

 

_-1975-_

In the beginning when they were still beating him, he looked for a way out, but then they made him a hype, and hypes don’t think so well.

He was numb on the surface, but just beneath he hurt all over. When they put the stuff in his veins it all faded—the sharp edges became rounded and comfortable. Everything stretched and flattened until there was room to breathe deeply, to feel pleasure. The pleasure was sensual, waiting in his blood like silk drifting over naked skin.

No tough decisions, no tension, no bullets, no dead bodies.

Just floating, head back, body moving with the waves . . .

 

 

_-Summer 1963-_

“Damn you, Hutch, you lied. It’s fucking cold, I  _knew_  it,” Starsky gasped. His arm arced out against the water’s surface, splashing Hutch’s face.

“Hell yeah, you mush brain. We’re in Minnesota, not California. The Point water’s not like those baby pools you call beaches in Bay City.”

“Goddamn  _cold_.” Starsky glared at him as if he, Hutch, had personally lowered Lake Superior’s water temperature just to get Starsky’s goat.

“Wimp.” Hutch gave it to him, heels of his palms digging into the water, driving it into Starsky’s face, one-two, one-two, solid deluges. Starsky roared into it, mouth open wide, and slogged ponderously to where Hutch stood, water roiling and colliding with his chest in advance.

“Huuuuutch!” Starsky bellowed, a great behemoth, then ruined the effect with an exaggerated cough. Hutch laughed, hands faltering in the water. Starsky flung himself the rest of the way and grabbed onto Hutch’s shoulders, then clambered around as if he were a piece of furniture. Hutch grunted and struggled as an elbow punched into his gut, hoping fervently that Starsky’s foot or knee or whatever wouldn’t bust his balls on the trip around. No harm, no foul, though—Starsky made it to Hutch’s back and clung there like a monkey.

“Get  _off_  me!” Hutch reached behind and tried to grab a leg, something. The wet skin slipped from his grip. Hutch reached higher up, fingers trying to grasp, and Starsky laughed, an eruption of sound.  _Ticklish._

Hutch wiggled his fingers over Starsky’s side unmercifully and the dark head dropped down across Hutch’s shoulder, dripping water. Starsky laughed helplessly, chest shaking against Hutch’s back.

“C’mon, man,” Starsky pleaded. His face pressed into the side of Hutch’s, hot, still laughing. Hutch could see how red it was. Then the head lowered and bit Hutch’s shoulder.

Hutch howled. “You bit me. I don’t believe it, what the hell, fucking  _cannibal!_ ” Starsky’s arms wrapped around his chest, hanging on. Hutch put a hand in Starsky’s armpit, found some hair and pulled viciously. The behemoth roared in pain.

Hutch ducked under the water, Starsky still clinging and bellowing. Underwater the bellowing stopped, replaced by a noisy bubbling at his ear. Teeth found Hutch’s earlobe and bit again. Hutch nearly swallowed a mouthful of lake water in reaction. He pushed up towards the surface to emerge gasping and red-faced. Starsky’s mouth loosened but didn’t quite let go.

He licked Hutch’s earlobe.

Hutch flinched, then flailed at Starsky’s face, slapping himself in the process. “Pervert!”

Starsky snickered, hot breath in his ear.

“Dave, stop chewing on Kenny’s ear and come eat lunch.” The boys looked up at Mr. Hutchinson on the beach. “You boys are foul-mouthed. Tone it down—”

“Kenny, Kenny,” Starsky mocked in a whisper while Mr. Hutchinson lectured. “‘Hutch’ is cool. ‘Kenny’ sucks donkey dicks. Kenny sounds like some rich nerd who couldn’t get a boner if Jayne Mansfield gave him a personal invite.”

“You and your movie stars,” Hutch whispered back, wading toward shore. “I get a hard-on for  _real_  girls.”

“I get more’n a boner. I get action. D’ya score with Kim yet?”

“—boys!”

“Yes, sir.” Starsky slipped from Hutch’s back and waded towards the shore, grinning.

“Yeth,  _sir_ ,” Hutch whined and lisped. Starsky splashed water at him. The two came dripping out of the water and onto the brown sand, grabbing towels. Together with Mr. Hutchinson, they headed across the beach to the yard and the back door of their sprawling white house. They walked in as the bell for the Ariel Lift Bridge clanged, allowing a freighter to pass.

Lunch was roast beef and cheese, heavy on the meat in deference to Starsky’s phenomenal appetite. Starsky poked his head in the kitchen and suddenly found himself starved, so the two of them wrapped their towels around their wet trunks instead of going upstairs to shower and dress. They scarfed down the meal in the Hutchinson’s sunny kitchen. Starsky held his stomach and belched just as Mr. Hutchinson stepped into the room.

“David, you’re a pig,” he announced bluntly. Hutch laughed, delighted.

Starsky shot his friend a look. “Your son’s teaching me bad manners.”

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Kenny is capable of behaving in a mannerly fashion. I know this because I taught him those manners back when I used to have them myself, before a couple of foul-mouthed teens influenced me unfavorably. Your aunt told me to take you in hand this summer, David, so you’ll have to learn some manners as well. God help me,” Mr. Hutchinson added. The sun flooded over the windowsill and flamed over his faded gold hair, bounded off the wire rims of his glasses and glanced over the surface of blue eyes.

Starsky sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Yeth sir,” Hutch mimicked again. Starsky shot him another evil look.

“Are we age ten?” Mr. Hutchinson looked over his glasses, frowning at his son. Outside, a ship’s horn sounded.

“No, sir,” mumbled Hutch.

“Good.” And Mr. Hutchinson walked out of the room.

“Just watch you kissing Dad’s ass,” Hutch said. “Wimp.”

“Did you get that from your nerd word of the day calendar?” Starsky put his plate and empty milk glass in the sink. “And I ain’t the only one around here kissin’ ass. ’Sides, he’s took me in for two summers now. I owe him.”

The Hutchinsons had regular shipping business at one of the California ports in Bay City, Starsky’s home. Hutch traveled with his father on occasion and was introduced to Starsky by passing circumstance in the form of the son of Mr. Hutchinson’s close associate and friend. The two boys had clicked almost instantly. Hutch pestered his dad to go with him whenever he was scheduled to travel to Bay City in the summer and on weekends and spent nearly all his time there with Starsky. Starsky had become a part-time member of the Hutchinson household.

“You owe  _me_ , creep,” Hutch replied.

“You’re lucky I feel sorry enough for you to hang out with you. I owe you dick,” Starsky said.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Keep it, I got my own. One the girls don’t laugh at.” He ran out of the room with Starsky hot on his heels, whooping in outrage. Starsky caught him before he made it to his room, tackling him, then alternately tickling and punching and threatening until Hutch agreed to watch the moronic monster movie showing at the drive-in later that night in Duluth.

Godamighty, those schlock movies sucked. He should just refuse to watch that garbage. Maybe someday there would come a time when he’d draw a line and refuse to cross it for Starsky, but Hutch hadn’t found it yet, and he didn’t believe it’d ever happen.

For either of them.

 

 

_-1975-_

He couldn’t see. They’d blindfolded him. There were hands on his shoulders and arms. They touched him like a piece of meat, handled him any way they wanted. It didn’t bother him.

Something wrapped around his left arm, tightened in a band. Then a deep burn in his arm as they injected him. A hand slapped his face, but gently. Something in his brain did a slow slide, copying his body’s boneless slide to the bed. He lay with his legs spread, staring into blackness.

“Look at him, he took to this stuff like a baby to a bottle. Hey, baby, wanna tell us where little mama is?”

They kept talking about him overhead somewhere, but to him it just sounded like insects buzzing. They could have been in another room or on another planet.

_I am._

_I am . . ._

_what?_

_Real. I am real._

_Want to go home._

_Starsky’s looking for me._

. . .

_He is._

 

 

_-Summer 1963-_

Her hair was dark and it shone like a crow’s wing, trailing down over the top of a red bikini. She smiled down at Starsky as she walked by, but her eyes were remote. He scrambled up on an elbow and poked Hutch hard in the side, and Hutch pulled an arm away from his face, looking sleepily at Starsky.

“Who the hell is that?” Starsky yelped. Hutch looked down the beach and then plopped his head back on the towel again.

“ _That_  is Vanessa,” Hutch answered. “Prom queen, daddy’s little rich girl and walking talking wet dream for most of the guys around here. Try not to choke on your own drool.”

“Yeah? I think I’m going to go make her day, you know?”

“You want to jump up and chase after her, be my guest, but if I were you I’d put my tongue back in my mouth, Fido. It’s embarrassing,” Hutch answered. Starsky threw sand over Hutch’s chest and stood, disturbing some seagulls into taking flight, then walked after the girl, swaggering. Hutch squinted after him and grinned, swatting at the damned ever-present mosquitoes. Swaggering was kind of complicated at a fast trot, but Starsky worked it out somehow.

Didn’t matter how fast he went, though. Hutch grinned a little more and waited.

Starsky came back and plopped back down beside him.

“Any luck?” Hutch asked. Starsky didn’t answer, just looked down morosely, running his fingers through the sand and dribbling it onto the beach. “I forgot to say Van’s an ice queen—cuts you down before you can open your mouth.”

Starsky frowned. “Yeah? You tried?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t have to.”

Starsky snorted. “Why not?” The wind whipped his hair away from his face.

“She’s got a thing for me.”

Starsky hooted laughter. “Her?”

“What?” Hutch moved his arm again to look at Starsky.

“She gives  _you_  the time of day.”

“Yep.”

“Don’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“Don’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

”Because. _You_.”

“I’m not bad to look at. I can talk with a reasonable amount of intelligence, unlike  _some people_  who sound just like a Jersey mobster—”

“Hey!”

“—with a sinus infection—”

“Watch it!”

“—and a mouthful of mush—”

Starsky launched himself with a yell, landing crosswise over Hutch’s body, punching into the gut beneath him. Hutch’s breath left him in a loud “oof” just as a silvery voice spoke:

“Ken?”

Starsky grew still, lying on Hutch’s stomach, then scrambled off in a heap, falling back on his butt and managing to fling granules of sand in Hutch’s mouth as he went.

“Pffthh.” Hutch sat up. He wiped across his mouth with the back of his hand. Van watched, eyebrow arching. “Hey, Van.”

“You haven’t talked to me all day. I met your friend just a moment ago.”

Hutch stuck his tongue out and ran it across the back of his hand, trying to get the sand out of his mouth. “Yeah. Starthky.” He grimaced.

Vanessa’s expression was priceless. “Good God. Are you taking behavior lessons from him?”

“I’m so offended,” Starsky said, sounding bored.

“Sand,” Hutch said. “In my mouth. You want to sit? Starsky doesn’t bite, much.”

Vanessa’s long limbs folded up like poured water as she sat. Her thigh touched Hutch’s. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Oh yeah?” Starsky asked.

Van ignored him. “Were you planning on attending Jack’s party?”

Hutch shrugged. “Sure, I guess we’ll be there.”

“Wonderful. Why didn’t you call last week?”

“I’m sorry, I was supposed to call?”

Vanessa pouted. “You forgot. How many of the boys in this town would forget, do you think?”

“I’m not most of the boys in this town, Van. Thought you knew that by now.”

“Oh, I know all right, Ken. That’s why I’m here,” Van said and smiled. She looked devastating. Starsky was fascinated. “You’re staring,” she said abruptly, turning her gaze to Starsky.

“I am?”

“You are.”

He shrugged. “Some things you shouldn’t turn your back on.”

Vanessa’s eyes turned icy. Hutch tried to suppress a smile.

“Kenny!”

Hutch twisted at the waist, looking back towards the house. His father’s tall form came down the slope. He slipped and nearly lost his balance in the sand.

“Your dad’s as clumsy as you,” Starsky said.

Hutch’s face grew still. “Yeah.” He watched his father come closer.

“Your cousin’s here, Ken.”

Starsky studied Mr. Hutchinson. His hair was messy and his glasses were crooked. He sounded a little . . . strange. Slurry.

Hutch stared at his father. An irritated look crossed Mr. Hutchinson’s face. “Come up to the house, Ken.”

“You okay, Mr. Hutchinson?” Starsky asked.

Hutch grabbed his arm, hard. “He’s fine, Starsk.” He spoke to the sand: “I’ll be up, Dad.” His father stood there a moment, almost as if he hadn’t heard. Then he turned without a word and began the trek back to the house.

Vanessa looked at Hutch. “Has he been dri—”

“He’s tired. Work’s been rough lately,” Hutch cut in. He stared at Vanessa, almost challenging her.

“Sure. Of course,” she said, but there was a little tilt to her mouth as if she were amused.

Hutch stood up abruptly, Vanessa’s thigh sliding along his arm. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Hutch?” Starsky said and stood up, too, but Hutch was already walking away.

 

 

- _1975-_

He knew now how they felt. The hypes. Getting high.

It was all about passing time so that the passing isn’t noticed. A way to get through a day without seeing or feeling or remembering the disappointments caused, what would never be done or tried. Opportunities missed.

They did it so they didn’t see the plane breaking apart in mid-air, didn’t feel the crash. It was something heard about—on the news, or someplace far away. Not experienced. Not yours, not your life.

Not real.

 

 

_-Summer 1963-_

“Drink up.” Jack handed the glass to Hutch. Hutch took a deep breath and gulped down the bourbon. He coughed, skin flushing pink. Starsky slapped his back, grinning, and that made him cough harder.

A wavy lock of hair fell over Jack’s forehead as he laughed. Hutch glared at him and Jack held out a hand in protest, still snickering, fending him off.

“Who wanted to play this game anyway?” Hutch had trouble enunciating.

“It’s fun,” Starsky protested.

“Jack’s turn. Truth, drink or dare?” Hutch asked, his color finally fading back. His eyes fixed on Jack, a pale sea blue that contrasted with his tan and sun-bleached, near white hair.

“Drink, drink till I drop,” Jack chanted and took the glass Hutch poured for him. “Observe the master.” He tilted his head back and drained it, then looked at the others, eyes gleaming. “None of that cough, choke, gag shit, like you pussies. Drink ’er down and next player up. Easy. What’s your poison, Starsky?”

“Truth.”

Jack raised a brow. “Yeah? You sure?”

“What’s the big deal?” Starsky slurred. He listed to one side.

“Nothing, nothing. Lemme think, here . . . hm. Aha. Got it. When’s the last time you whacked off and who were you thinking about?”

“Shit,” Starsky said. He grinned, teeth white against his sun-darkened skin.

Hutch laughed. “C’mon, Starsk.”

“Can he ask two-part questions like that?”

“You chicken or what?” Hutch watched him, fascinated. Starsky was the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Hell no. I, uh . . . a couple of hours ago.” Starsky braced on one hand on the floor as he started to tip and stared down at the other curled in his lap.

“A couple of hours ago?” Hutch asked, disbelieving. “Where was I?”

“Holding my dick,” Starsky said, and grinned a lopsided grin as Hutch flushed again. Jack laughed.

“How do I know where you were, dummy?” Starsky hiccuped.

“Where’d you do it?” asked Jack.

“I was in the bathroom. Where else would I be, up on the roof of the house?”

“Smartass. And you were thinking of . . .” Jack prompted.

“Your mother,” Starsky said, his eyes round, his face innocent. Jack threw a pillow at him, and Starsky ducked. “You know that swimsuit she wore yesterday?” Jack threw himself at Starsky and Starsky rolled on the carpet, trying to get away. “Hot. She’s hot hot  _hot_ _!_ ” he said, yelling the last word as Jack pinned him to the carpet and sat on him. “Umph. Ow ow, get off me,” Starsky said, then giggled as Hutch, not quite trusting his legs to walk, crawled over and tickled his sides. “No fair, Blondie. I haven’t even told you about my bathroom time over  _your_ mom,” then laughed helplessly as Hutch, his face grim, grabbed a foot and tickled more.

Jack looked at Hutch. “God, you’re right. He  _is_  a pervert.”

“The proud, the pickled, the perverted.” Hutch ran his fingers over the soles of Starsky’s feet. Starsky kicked and wiggled, laughing. His face turned a deep red. Hutch lost hold of him and fell, his nose grinding into the carpet. He stayed there for a minute before getting up and grabbing one of the wildly waving feet again.

“When’d you say your mom’s coming home? I miss her,” Starsky gasped.

“Well perv, Mom’ll be home— _with Dad_ —when their dinnuh pawty’s over. It’ll be a while, they’ll be getting pickled same as us,” Jack answered.

“Threesome then.”

Hutch made an  _ick_  face. “Ugh, with his dad too? His mom’s cute. Not his dad.”

Lemme go,” Starsky pleaded, still wiggling.

“You promise to shut up about my mother?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“He’s lying,” Hutch warned as Jack got up.

“Hutch’s turn,” said Starsky and sat up, breathing a little heavily. He smiled at Jack. Jack frowned. Starsky turned to Hutch. “Truth, drink or dare, pal?”

“Huh.” Hutch rubbed his chin, thinking. “No way I’m drinking.”

Jack shook his head, looking superior. “Can’t handle your booze.”

“How ’bout truth, Hutch?” Starsky asked. “When’s the last time  _you_  holed up in the bathroom over Jack’s mom?”

“She just ain’t that hot, Pervis,” Jack said, trying to sound easy but not quite succeeding. He looked a little pissed.

Hutch laughed. “Pervis. I like it. And Jack? Sorry, buddy, but she’s hot. All the guys think so.”

Jack winced. “I don’t wanna hear about this. She’s my mom, she can’t be hot. You’re fucking with my head.”

“Better than fucking your—”

“Shut up, Starsky!” said Jack, though Hutch had already pressed Starsky’s arm in warning. He let go when he saw it flicker over Starsky’s lean face:  _too far_.

Hutch watched the two in silence before he spoke. “Dare. I pick a dare.”

Jack looked at Starsky, saying nothing. Then he looked at Hutch. “Couldn’t you have picked up a more deserving stray in Bay City than him?” Jack cocked a thumb. Starsky’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“Shut up.” Hutch’s voice was cold.

Starsky’s hand moved to Hutch’s shoulder and squeezed. “Hey. It’s okay.”

Hutch took a long breath and blew it out. “You guys got a dare for me or are we done?”

“Yeah, I got a dare for you, Hutch,” Jack said. He smiled but his eyes didn’t.

Hutch smiled back, just as humorless. “Fire away.”

“Jerk off.”

Hutch blinked. “Wh-what?”

Jack smiled some more, teeth showing white. This time it reached his eyes, though that didn’t make it any nicer.

“Jack off, Hutch. Yank your wank, milk the monster. Here. Now.”

Hutch looked at Jack for a long time. He didn’t blink, though his head swayed on his neck.

 _Stoned out of his gourd_ , Starsky thought. “What kinda dare is that?” he asked, tone belligerent, but then Hutch shrugged.

“Sure.”

“Shit,” said Starsky again.

Hutch’s hand hovered at his zipper before unzipping his pants, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. His fingers shook.

Starsky poured a drink. “You don’t have to do it. It’s just a fucking game.”

“What’s the matter, you worried about your boyfriend?” Jack asked.

“What does that mean?” Starsky glared at Jack, then turned to Hutch. “What’re you doing this for?” Starsky leaned to hand Hutch the drink. He downed it and squeezed his eyes shut.

“May I remind you you could have taken a drink and skipped the dare?” Jack asked.

“You may,” Hutch said, mocking. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Who gives a shit about a stupid game?” Starsky pressed.

“He gives a shit,” Hutch said, looking at Jack. “He wants to think I do, but I don’t. Never did.” Starsky’s eyes widened, but Hutch cut him off. “Just whatever, Starsk.”

“I thought city boys did all kinds of wild shit. Ever been in a circle jerk, Starsky?” Jack rattled the ice in his glass and sucked down the dregs of the whisky.

“Right, rube. Real wild. Can’t do it on your own, you need help?” Starsky sneered, angry beyond reason, ready to take him on. Jack scowled but didn’t move. Starsky looked at Hutch, but he was looking down and all Starsky saw was a tousled blond mop of hair. Hutch’s long brown fingers touched the button at the top of his pants, pushed it free. He stood, swaying, a silhouette with hair limned white by the overhead light. He pulled off his shoes, pulled his pants down over his ass, followed by his briefs, managing not to fall doing it, then sat on the arm of the couch and pulled them off his feet. He slid down the front of the couch arm, leaning against it, and took another deep breath. He pulled one of his knees up, perching an arm over it. With the other hand he reached, fingers wrapping over himself, twisting gently over his cock, ruffling his dark blond pubic hair.

Starsky didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

An odd thought went through his head—Hutch’s cock was good sized, his legs long, muscular lines, but the pale hair at his crotch belied the adult, made him somehow vulnerable. Starsky wrenched his head away, confused. Aroused. His stomach churned, protesting the strength of it.

“This what you want, Jack?” Hutch said, and Starsky looked back again. Hutch’s eyes were soft, fogged. He smiled, looking like a stranger.

Alarm bells went off in Starsky’s head, faint, shrouded in alcohol, bringing a recent memory.

_Downtown, a cool night, spring ducking back out of sight for the evening. Starsky walked down Branson Street with his friend, Pete. The streetlights had been on for a good half-hour, cool white smudges against the black sky. A boy leaned against one of the posts, hands in his pockets—a blond boy with eyes all black pupils, flashing a smile their way. Starsky nodded, his breath fogging and trailing behind as he passed. Pete ignored the guy._

_A block later, Starsky looked back. The boy leaned down, talking to someone in a dark-colored Chevy, then walked in front of the car, interrupting first one headlight beam, then the other, and got in the passenger side._

The look on Hutch’s face was oddly similar to that of the boy’s.

“I don’t want anything, Hutch.” Jack looked away.

Starsky watched the two of them. It seemed important not to miss whatever was going on between them, even though there was a black knot of dread in his gut. But Hutch was his friend and he followed his instinct, always, whenever it came to him, and instinct told him Hutch might need him to know this, whatever  _this_  was.

Hutch moved his back against the seat cushion of the couch and stared at Jack, his hand rubbing almost absently around the head of his lengthening cock. His fingers roamed down to the base and gripped firmly. He slouched, stretching the one leg further out along the floor, head propped up by the cushion seats. He stroked himself slowly, bottom to top, then back, again. He stroked faster, and his cock grew and darkened, the big vein throbbing on the underside.

Starsky’s eyes widened.

Hutch’s eyes settled on Starsky, and Starsky saw him  _see_  it, saw him refuse to hide from the question.

_Hutch. Hutch . . . Jack?_

Starsky swallowed, then stood up, nearly losing his balance in his haste. He walked out of the room as Hutch threw back his head and came.

 

 

_-1975-_

“Hutch,” she said, her voice breaking. He looked up at her from the bed. Pretty. Pretty lady. He said it. Remembered fucking her, vaguely, but it didn’t mean a lot. Past life, doesn’t count. What meant a lot was what rode him at the moment. The horse.

He held up his hands, surprised. “You untied me?” He smiled, remembering that he’d wanted to be untied before.

There were tears on his neck, her warm breath sobbing against his face. Her hands were on him.

And then she was gone.

Hutch nodded.

Starsky prowled the streets. He didn’t stop moving, ever. He found Mickey and bought him a drink, asked all the right questions, desperation making him wave the money stiffly in Mickey’s face like a weapon, threatening him. His heart raced like it was going somewhere, accomplishing something, finding out where Hutch was, but all it really did was rev uselessly like an engine in park. His eyes were gritty and his mouth dry and he felt half-insane.

He remembered the day Hutch called him, out of the blue, so long after those summers spent together that he’d given up hope of ever hearing from him again. It was a miracle Hutch’d even got hold of him, that he’d been at his aunt’s house when Hutch called, but they didn’t talk about that, didn’t talk about the past or how they’d parted. That first time, Hutch talked about one thing and one thing only: he still wanted to be a cop. Told Starsky his parents were against it, but he’d made up his mind.

He talked, and it took hold of Starsky like a wildfire, rushing through him, the past merging into a bright future, one where he made a fucking difference. Where what he did mattered, where if you shot one bad guy down, another wouldn’t pop up like some goddamned nightmare jack-in-the-box, automatic automated replacement screaming at him in a language he didn’t know, that never gave up, never stopped until either he or you were dead. That’s when you figured out they weren’t automated, because of all the blood and guts.

But yeah. A cop.

And now here they were, detectives.

So many things between them unfinished, unknown. Things that got pushed to the back of the line because of fear, because it was hard to look too closely into the past and what it all meant. Behind other things called duty and the Holy Grail of Normalcy. Things that burned low in his gut now with nowhere to go, all the useless fears blow-torched away, leaving something implacable in its wake: the single-minded intensity of his feelings for his partner.

_It can’t be too late._

He’d find Hutch alive or the people who took him were gonna die for it.

He tried to push the images proving the automatons were real from out behind his eyes.

 

 

_-Summer 1963-_

Starsky woke up from an unintended nap, staring at the ceiling above him. Too high above him. This wasn’t home or the place he called home, anyway. For a moment Starsky wondered where he was and then realized. It usually happened less as the summers progressed. But here it was, happening again on his last day of the summer in Duluth—he was scheduled to leave tomorrow. His plane ticket read 8:00 in the morning.

He thought maybe something had woken him up. He waited, listening, but it was quiet. He blinked and yawned, then threw aside the sheet and swung his legs off the side of the bed, wiggling his toes.

The air in the house felt close, overheated. Starsky padded to the door and out, looking up and down the hallway. Nothing. He started down the stairs and heard a voice, faint, in the direction of the kitchen. Reaching the end of the stairs, Starsky headed toward it.

“ . . . going swimming, Dad.”

“And I said no!”

“I’m not staying here with you!” Hutch said, walking out the kitchen door and nearly mowing Starsky down. Starsky followed, willing his heavy, sleep-numbed thoughts into alertness.

“David, stay out of this.”

Starsky swung around to face Mr. Hutchinson. “What’s wrong with him?”

“What’s wrong is that Ken thinks he’s too old to listen to his father. Too bad he’s not as bright as he seems.”

Starsky stared at Mr. Hutchinson.

“Stop staring at me!”

“What did you do?”

“What did I do? What did  _I_ do? You don’t ask the fucking questions around here, you understand?”

Starsky froze. His eyes narrowed, cataloging, traveling over Hutch’s dad, who stood there with one hand on his hip. Hair the same, neatly combed. There was a sweat stain beneath the raised arm. Maybe the slouch was more pronounced. Maybe something in the eyes. Yeah, the eyes.

Then he took a step closer and smelled it.

He turned and ran after Hutch, all the small things he’d sensed were off about him this summer—moods all over the map, the secrets he wasn’t privy to, wildness, restlessness—all of it clicking into place as the screen door banged behind him. He ignored whatever it was Mr. Hutchinson yelled after and kept going, footsteps pounding over the wooden porch, down the steps to the yard and over the lawn to where it all turned to beach grass and sand. Hutch jogged down to the water ahead of him, a black silhouette against the sun sitting just above the water. Hutch’s shirt came over his head, floating downwind to the sand. The water sparkled, a sun-mirror. Starsky squinted.

“Hutch! Wait up!” But Hutch kept running, stride faltering as he slogged into the water. He dived in and disappeared, then surfaced, arms stroking, disrupting the glimmer. Starsky stopped at the water’s edge, uncertain of Hutch’s reaction if he went after him, but it was a small hesitation. He ran into the water, catching his breath at the coldness, then dived in. Hutch slowed, treading water, and Starsky caught up.

“What—” Starsky began, panting.

“Son of a bitch,” Hutch swore, wild-eyed, but the words sounded near tears. Water dripped off his face and the ends of his hair.

“—happened?”

“You didn’t have to follow me!”

“Tell me what’s going on!”

Hutch opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. Tried again. “He stopped, Starsky, he stopped, and now after all these years—” Hutch pulled in a huge gulp of air. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face gone white beneath the tan. “Didn’t want you to know.”

“C’mon, Hutch.” But his face stayed that strained white and he didn’t speak. “ _C’mon_ ,” Starsky said. “It’s okay. “

“Sure. But then you’ll find something else to do next summer, right?”

Starsky stared at Hutch. “You dummy. ’Course I’ll be here.” He shook Hutch’s shoulder, a quick back and forth. “Yeah?”

“Kenny, you get back up here! Now!”

Hutch’s shoulder jerked beneath Starsky’s hand, but otherwise he didn’t react.

Up at the shoreline, Mr. Hutchinson reared back an arm and threw something. He nearly fell over doing it. It landed two yards away from them, floating. An empty liquor bottle.

“Who are you?” Hutch screamed, all the color rushing back into his face. “You’re no-not—”

“I’m you’re father and I want you up here and in your  _room_! You do what I say! You think you can stay out there forever? By God—” and Mr. Hutchinson started to wade into the water. He stumbled, splashing down into the water on all fours.

Hutch let out a strangled, shamed laugh that sounded more like a sob.

“It’s just me, Hutch, it’s okay, got nothing to do with you, I know that,” Starsky said and stretched his fingers out and down, rubbing the back of his shoulder. Hutch didn’t say anything, almost cringing as his father crawled up on the sandy shore. He made grunting noises and muttered while doing it. It took him a while, but he dragged himself upright and started back towards the house, swaying.

“God, that’s disgusting. Damn. Makes me want to puke.” Hutch laughed, a short hard sound nowhere related to happiness. “I’m not going back in.” He swiped angrily at his eyes.

Starsky blew a heavy breath out, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Can’t stay out here all night, buddy.”

“You wanna go, go.”

“Not without you.”

“Didn’t you hear me, I said I’m not  _going back_!”

“Just closer in! Jesus. I’d like to touch the bottom of this rock hole you call a lake, is that all right? Gettin’ tired.”

“Oh,” Hutch said after a moment. He started swimming. Starsky shook his head and followed, stopping when Hutch stopped. He stood and found he was in shoulder-deep water. Hutch stared up at the house, the slanting sunlight turning his eyes a strange, yellow-bleached noncolor.

“What’d he get mad about?” Starsky asked quietly.

“What doesn’t he get mad about? Anything. Everything. Didn’t like what I did or said since I first set foot in the room with him. Told him I was going swimming and he didn’t like that, either. I just wanted to get away.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, encouraging him.

”It’s like he’s got radar—he senses what you don’t want or what he can do to make you feel like shit and he goes for it. You ever know people like that?”

“Sure. My cousin, he gets like that when he gets in trouble. Takes it out on me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

Starsky shrugged. “Once I clocked him.”

Hutch smiled a little. “Hard?”

Starsky nodded. “Landed a good one.”

“Got in trouble.”

“Oh yeah. You know it.”

Hutch sighed. “I don’t think I can clock Dad.”

Starsky grinned. “Better not.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Starsk. He gets . . . “

“Just tell me.”

“He’s just . . . you know what? It’s like he hates me.”

“No way.”

“Fine, whatever,” Hutch said, his face gone expressionless. He took a step towards shore. Starsky caught his arm underwater.

“I didn’t mean I don’t believe you, Hutch. I just meant it’s the booze talking. Your dad is crazy about you.”

“He says crazy shit, sometimes.”

“When the hell did this start, Hutch? Why haven’t you told me?”

“It started again sometime over last winter. It happened a lot when I was little. He . . . it was bad. He’s . . . someone else. Not my dad.”

“You should have told me.”

They stood there in the lake water as the day darkened, Hutch staring down at the still water. “Why?” he said it softly.

“What do you mean, why? Because I’m me and you’re you, that’s why. That’s what we do. Tell each other stuff.” Starsky tried to repress a shiver. The damned lake was freezing his balls off.

“It’s getting worse, and I . . . I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

Hutch shrugged.

“Hey. ”

Hutch raised his head and looked at his friend. Blue shadows traced beneath his eyes.

“Hutch. Are we gonna go in?”

Hutch’s jaw tightened. “Not going in there.”

“Fine, we’ll stay out here in the lake all night.”

“Not going in.”

“Can’t stay here forever.”

“Fuck you, Starsky, I’m not going in!” Hutch yelled into Starsky’s face.

Starsky put his hands on his shoulders and yanked him forward. “Stop yelling at me!” he yelled back.

“Could you just fucking leave me alone?” Hutch shouted, the tendons in his neck standing out. His swiped a hand across the water, smacking it, splashing Starsky.

Instead of pulling away, Starsky came closer, wiping a hand over his dripping face. “Hutch. Don’t,” he whispered and reached out, fingers gliding down Hutch’s water-cool shoulder. It trembled beneath his touch, a single small shiver. Starsky moved, wrapped his arm around Hutch’s back, pulled him in close, wrapped the other arm around him, holding him, pressing an unthinking kiss in the curve at Hutch’s shoulder and neck.

And froze, stricken by what he’d done. Nobody moved.

Then Hutch leaned back and looked into Starsky’s eyes.

_Okay, then._

Hutch stepped in closer. Their bodies touched in a long line, Starsky’s knee bumping, sliding inside of Hutch’s, stomachs rubbing against each other.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch murmured, all the anger gone, the lines of his mouth defenseless.

Starsky leaned closer, saying nothing, feeling Hutch’s breath on his cheek. Leaned closer still and touched his lips to Hutch’s for a bare moment, unsteadily, then retreated. Then again, his heart in his throat.

Hutch jerked back, the lines of his body rigid. Starsky’s heart fell into his stomach.

Then Hutch stepped forward and yanked Starsky back to him, closer, jamming his mouth down onto Starsky’s. Starsky made a surprised sound that turned into a moan, then opened his mouth to Hutch. Hutch’s mouth was hard and hot and hungry, and Starsky pressed back and dove in for all he was worth, heart slamming wildly against his ribs.

The screen door at the house slammed, sharp as a rifle shot in the clear, cooling air.

They sprang apart, gasping, awkward, blushing. Hard-ons reaching to the moon.

Starsky broke the silence. “C’mon, now.” He watched the shoreline instead of Hutch, but held out his hand, then risked a glance back. Hutch looked at him a minute and then took it. 

The next day on the plane and for days after, Starsky saw the yellow noncolor of Hutch’s eyes in the setting sun, felt the warm press of his hand just before he boarded the plane. Felt the heat of his mouth.

He tried not to think about the night at Jack’s and what it might mean.

 

 

_-1975-_

_Need._

_Needneedneedneedit._

_Need to get high. Want._

_Wantwantwant._

Crawling on the floor. He couldn’t get up to walk.

“Don’t leave me!” he screamed, reaching out. They laughed, walked around his grasping hands and left him with a need so big it blotted out the world.

 

 

Starsky slammed his fist down onto the pinball machine at Huggy’s, all his frustration behind it.

“Hey, Starsky, c’mon!” Huggy yelled and ran from behind the bar. Starsky hit it again. Huggy grabbed him by the tops of his arms. “You’ll find him, you will  _find him_.”

“I don’t know nothing, can’t find nothing, no onewho’ll take me to him, I’m running out of time!”

“You’re gonna find him.”

“How? Goddammit, you tell me how!”

“Something’ll turn.”

“It’s gonna be too late. He’s gonna . . . “

“He is not gonna die. He’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that. Huggy?”

“You’d know. You know you would.” Huggy watched him, gripped his arms harder and fed the strength of his belief to Starsky in the look. Starsky took it in for a long moment, accepted it, then dropped his head back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling, regrouping.

 

 

_-Summer 1964-_

Starsky walked off the plane and into the noise and flowing human traffic of the airport, his heart pounding hard enough that the drone of human voices couldn’t compete. He tried his level best to appear relaxed. Then he spotted Hutch’s bright head of hair—it was easy, even in a crowd—and then Hutch caught his eye and smiled, big and bright and glad, and the tightness in Starsky’s chest eased.

It’d been a long winter for Starsky, filled with uncertainty about what they’d done just before he left Duluth last summer. Not so much about what they’d done, exactly, but about what Hutch thought about it after a whole long winter to toss it around in that blond head of his. Starsky wouldn’t have wasted two minutes worrying if it’d been a girl—Starsky had a lot of confidence in that particular area—but this, this was new for him, and frankly kind of weird.

At least that’s what he’d have thought before he knew how Hutch’s body felt brushing against his in the lake. How his mouth felt against his.

It kind of turned everything upside down for him. He’d racked his brain, trying to figure out if he’d ever felt anything remotely like this with another guy and just didn’t realize it, or had refused to realize it. But he hadn’t.

He had no real way of knowing how Hutch felt about it—he hadn’t been to visit Bay City all winter—and Starsky couldn’t tell enough of how Hutch was feeling over the phone. Not when Hutch wanted to hide it.

Starsky did his best to ignore the anxious possibility that Hutch hadn’t come to BC because of what they’d done together and pretty well succeeded. He figured it had more to do with the widening gap between Hutch and his dad, especially after a particular phone call from Hutch only a couple of weeks after Starsky had gone back home.

Hutch’s voice was uneven, hoarse, and he didn’t have much to say, but he didn’t want to hang up, Starsky could tell. Starsky first tried to fill the silence and then, as he grew more worried, demanded to know what was wrong.

Which hadn’t gotten him anywhere.

So then he’d told Hutch he wished he were there with him. More than once. Then they’d sat and listened to each other breathe awhile. Starsky felt the fear growing in his own chest, wanted nothing more than to see Hutch, find out what was wrong. His fingers were stiff and hard to uncurl by the time he’d hung up the phone.

He called every day for four days straight after that, checking on Hutch. His aunt nearly shit a brick when she got the phone bill.

Now at the airport, the two of them hugged each other and then stepped back quickly, a little awkwardly. But they still smiled doing it.

The three of them hiked down to where the road started again, and Hutch’s father drove them home. He looked older and tired. They pulled up in the driveway of the big white house, and Starsky sighed, looking up at it. It had become a second home to him. Or maybe it was just Hutch. He turned to look at Hutch and smiled again, and Hutch smiled back, bemused, shaking his head.

They hadn’t been there for half an hour when Hutch first told him about his future career plans. He wanted to be a cop.

“A cop?” Starsky asked in amazement. “Those are the guys my pals and me run away from in BC, ya know?”

“Yeah, talk up a good game, Starsky. You’re not some criminal mastermind—first of all you’re too dumb—you’re not even a petty thief. You know what? I think you’d make a good cop, too.”

Starsky snorted. “For a dumb ass, you mean? Well, you think wrong, Hutchinson. And I don’t have much use for ’em.”

“Don’t you want to make a difference out in the world, do something that matters?”

“What about your family business? Think it’s gonna run itself after your Dad retires?”

“No way I’m going to work in the family business. No way.”

“Why no way?”

“Because no fucking way is why. Just what I need, to spend more time with that asshole than I have to. And what good is his job? What does he do that makes a damn bit of difference to anybody?”

“What good are the cops? When Pop died, they did zilch. They never found who did it, never even made an arrest, just turned their sirens on and shagged their fat asses over to the donut store. Joe, now he made the difference.”

“Joe?”

“Dad’s friend. Never mind. Point is, I’ve never met a cop I like.”

“You’ve met me and I’m gonna be a cop.”

“No, you’re gonna be a dummy. Are one now. Maybe you’d fit in real well with the police, come to think about it. But not me.”

“Why don’t you just suck my dick, Starsky,” Hutch exclaimed. The words were more hostile than joke. Starsky’s eyes followed him as he jumped up and walked off, away from Starsky.

“You never know, Hutch . . .” he muttered and grinned down at his hands, feeling his face flush warm.

_Or maybe not._

The fucking lake was warmer than Hutch’s mood this summer. Starsky thought Hutch had been happy to see him when he first arrived, hell, even relieved someway, but that faded before the day was out as far as Starsky could tell. Since then Hutch had picked on Starsky’s manners, the way he talked, the things he said . . . fuck, you name  _anything_ Starsky said or did or thought, Hutch was all over it.

One night about a week after Starsky had flown in, they’d had a shouting match that had brought Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson running into the room. Funny thing was, the argument meant less than shit. Starsky couldn’t remember what they’d fought about ten minutes later. The second Hutch saw his parents he headed for the door, jaw jumping, eyes seeming almost to spark. They told him not to leave but he brushed past them as if they didn’t exist.

“What’s going on?” Mr. Hutchinson asked, and Starsky felt like he was about eight years old, the way the man spoke down to him.

He stared out the window at the lights of the bridge. Looked so far away. “Put up with all I’m gonna  _take_ out of him.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong between you two?” Mrs. Hutchinson asked. The lamplight brought blonde highlights to her curly hair and made the diamond in her ring sparkle. Her perfume was subtle, expensive. She looked nothing like his mom, smelled nothing like his mom. He realized he missed her.

“Nothing a plane trip back home couldn’t solve,” Starsky snapped, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his hair. He plopped down on the plush, patterned couch.

“C’mon, Dave. You have one argument with Kenny and you’re ready to go home?” Mr. Hutchinson shook his head.

“Not an argument. Arguments. He’s driving me nuts and shit, ’scuse me, sorry Mrs. Hutchinson, but nothing I do is right, nothing I say. I get the feelin’ looking at my face gives him indigestion.” Starsky got up and paced the room.

“He’s—he’s had a rough time of it lately, Dave. We all have,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, looking at Mr. Hutchinson. Starsky watched her watch her husband and decided she found something lacking in what she saw.

“I know you go to a lot of trouble to bring me out here every summer, but I don’t see what good it is me being here now.”

“You can’t go. He needs you,” Mrs. Hutchinson said quietly.

“Needs me! He can’t stand the sight of me.” Starsky made an effort to lower his voice, hearing how loud he sounded.

“We talked about trying to deal with . . . certain things on our own this summer, not bringing you out here and getting you involved in our problems, but Ken needs you. He’s out all hours, he acts like we’re—” and Mr. Hutchinson flung an arm out in the direction his son had exited the room— “non-existent. He stays out all times of night, pleases no one but himself. He’s-he’s . . . ” Mr. Hutchinson stuttered, a frown line appearing between his eyes. He couldn’t seem to get the next words out, so Mrs. Hutchinson supplied them.

“He’s drinking. Maybe worse, for all we know,” Mrs. Hutchinson clarified, something like contempt flashing in her eyes as she looked at her husband.

Mr. Hutchinson’s posture was stooped, and he slouched back against the wall as if too tired to support himself. He looked older than he was by ten years, skin loose at his chin and his hair a dry, coarse gray, with only a ghost of the blond left that he used to be. “He needs a friend, David. He needs you. He told us.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Yeah?” Starsky let out a chuff of air. “I don’t think so—wait. He  _told_  you?”

“When we talked about you staying home this summer, he got pretty hysterical, insisted you come.”

“What’s wrong with all of you?” Starsky asked loudly. _Tell me. Have the balls to tell me._

Mrs. Hutchinson looked at Mr. Hutchinson, clearly leaving it up to him. Mr. Hutchinson looked at Starsky, then down, shook his head. Tried to meet Starsky’s eyes and failed.

Starsky’s eyes narrowed. “What’ve you done?”

He expected them to be angry, but instead, the silence grew louder than a scream. Starsky couldn’t stop staring at Mr. Hutchinson as the quiet streaked on, at the defeat in his face and his posture.

Starsky broke it. “It was just an argument, for Christ’s sake. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. He’s my best friend.”

Mrs. Hutchinson smiled at Starsky. There was something tremulous in it, a tinge of desperation that made Starsky uncomfortable. Mr. Hutchinson made the attempt but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Starsky thought that someone about to drown would probably look just like that.

 

 

_-1975-_

He had a tip, was supposed to meet a couple of guys who might know something. Huggy told him to watch his ass. These two hadn’t been around town long. He didn’t know much about them.

Huggy was right.

He met them at the back door of a strip joint in an alleyway. Trashcans overflowed, wrappers and papers and food cans lying on the gray pavement, winking in the early morning sun overhead. The two men were there waiting, leaning against a wide door painted a thousand times over, current shade a dull blue. One of them was dark-haired with straight thin hair, brown skin stretched tight over hollow cheekbones. The other was blond, bushy-headed, tall. Mutt and Jeff.

They tried to feed him some slick bullshit, said they knew where Hutch was, would take him there, but first they wanted some money upfront. He looked at them and their mouths moved but the words were drowned out by the memory-sound of blades thumping, slicing air. Automatons with blinking eyes, mouths moving furiously, talking, all of it heartless, soulless, worthless. Nothing to help him save his partner.

He hit Jeff first, the motormouth who was slicker than spit on glass, hit him square on the nose. He screamed and clutched at his face, blood flooding down to his shirt and soaking in. Mutt tried to jump Starsky but Starsky kicked him in the gut before he got so much as a finger on him. Mutt fell and Starsky stomped the gut beneath him on the ground.

Then somehow the volume came back on, rushing his ears. “You motherfucker, oh shit oh God my fucking _nose_ ,” Jeff said and he heard Mutt gasping, phlegm rattling noisily in the back of his throat.

It made Starsky a little nauseous—the phlegm, Jeff’s blood. Not the sight or the sounds of it, but the fact that he’d caused it. These guys were small-time hustlers. He’d met up with them only because he was desperate and they were stupid. Their bad luck.

_Save it for the ones that have Hutch. The ones that deserve it._

Their groans and curses bounced off the walls and windows and doors of the alleyway, coming in crystal clear as he walked off.

 

 

Hutch was shoved into the back of a car. The seat was vinyl, and when Morrisey climbed in behind him and pushed him over, his body slid across it and his head knocked into the far door. He heard the dull noise it made in his ear as his head hit, felt his head jar but didn’t really  _f_ _eel_  it. Like it was somebody else. Must be somebody else.

The car rumbled beneath him. They were talking about water, bodies, sharks. Didn’t care. But then some little voice from some part so far inside that he’d have sworn it was stricken dumb and numb, dead by heroin, told him to listen to what was said. Listen and fight.

He kicked Morrisey and the car tires screeched, the car stopped and he was out, free, who the fuck knew where, he only knew where he was when his feet landed: road, sidewalk. People screamed. He fell on the grass, got up again, no more lying down because if he did that he’d die. Running. Feet scraping the pavement. His awareness of where he was constricted further: he touched a bush, so he and the bush existed. Outside of his next step or next fall, nothing existed.

The legs were refusing to work. He concentrated hard, took another step and it jarred and he bit his tongue. The daylight dimmed. Wanted to throw up, swallowed it back.

Another step, his awareness retracting further, his foot seeming to forget where the ground was, trying to crash right through the pavement. Hurt. He threw his head back, took another step.

No stopping.

Fell to his knees.

 

 

_-Summer 1964-_

Five of them sat in Jack’s game room at his parent’s house on Lake Shore. It was a beautiful old house, and Jack and friends had been allowed to take over much of the lower level. Jack’s parents were never home during the summer, or not much.

A couple more boys wandered in and out, most on their way to becoming seriously fucked up, some already over that line by a good stretch. The room was long and low, on the basement level of the house. A pool table was pushed to one side. It was dark and smoky and smelled like weed.

So here was where the famed circle jerks were held—at one of the finest old homes in Duluth. Starsky’s first reaction was derision, but underneath, yeah, he wanted to see. To be there. And besides, it wasn’t so easy running around with a hard-on half the time—he’d throw one if the wind blew past his pants anymore. Sex was getting to be all he could think about, and whether or not he wanted to think about it meant shit since his dick appeared to have commandeered his brain for the foreseeable future.

Hutch sat there grinning at him, already on the floor, his legs crossed, Jack sitting beside him. Somebody passed a joint around and Hutch took a long drag. Starsky frowned and shook his head at him, but Hutch just motioned at him with his head to sit down. Starsky had to laugh because it looked like Hutch made himself dizzy doing it. He folded down beside him too fast and his stomach caught up with him a second or two later, reminding him that he’d had a healthy share of liquor, too.

Jack got up and shut off all the lights, even those outside in the hall. He came back in and promptly stumbled over a body in the dark. There was an exclamation from down on the floor and Jack laughed. He made his way to where the projector was set up. There was a whirring noise and a woman appeared on the suddenly bright screen: naked, blonde, tits twice as big as life and shaking in the face of the guy she rode. Somebody said, “Oh, yeah!”—Starsky thought it was that moron Philbert from further down on the Point past Hutch’s house—and there was scattered applause, then whistles and catcalls as the big breasts jounced harder, seemingly threatening to fly off-screen. Starsky’s grin came up almost as instantly and as hard as his dick did, and he put a hand on himself and rubbed once.

Hutch saw him do it and grinned. He leaned back on one hand and put a hand down into his shorts and slipped his cock out, easy as that. Starsky fought to keep his eyes on Hutch’s face and failed miserably, couldn’t help but look at the length and width of him in the light from the screen, the hardness, the way he touched himself. Hutch jacked himself slowly and Starsky’s cock throbbed through the cloth beneath his hand.

“What’re you waiting for, Starsk?” Hutch said. His voice was husky, and he smiled a lazy smile.

 _Look at the happy horny stoned guy._ Starsky grinned. Something on Hutch’s face, though, triggered a memory: the boy from last year on the streets of BC, the boy who sold himself, the look in his eyes saying he was used to trying to float over the bad shit.

The grin disappeared.

“Starsky?” Hutch asked, watching him.

Starsky tried to think of something else. “This ain’t a circle jerk. We’re not all in the circle,” Starsky whispered, somewhat ridiculously. His head was fucked.

Jack was just getting settled on the other side of Hutch again and heard him. “Now that’s funny.” He laughed and chewed his gum, popping a bubble. “Starsky says if we aren’t all in a circle then we’re not in a circle jerk!” Jack called out loudly to the room.

Starsky’s face went red. He leaned over and punched a hard fist onto Hutch’s hand, braced on the ground for support.

Hutch looked foggily at his hand and then winced in delayed reaction. “What was that for?” Hutch asked. His eyes were only half open.

“Because you’re his friend and I can’t get to him,” Starsky snapped. Hutch looked puzzled and Starsky rolled his eyes.

Philbert walked over and looked down at Starsky, grinning. “So, we gotta get in a circle, huh?” He sat down on the other side of Jack. “Okay, I’m in. Wish I was in that.” He stuck a finger through a circle he made with thumb and forefinger and jerked it back and forth. The woman on screen was on her back, moaning as the man thrust his cock into her mouth.

“Last I heard you were still waiting for your momma to explain the facts of life,” Starsky said.

“Oh hey, you are so funny,” Phil said, clutching his gut in fake laughter. He straightened up. “Last I heard you were waiting on Hutch to show you where the right hole is.”

“Only hole’ll let you within twenty miles is the one you make with your thumb and forefinger, there,” Hutch said. Jack popped another bubble and grinned.

“And the one you make for me to jack off in,” Phil snapped right back.

“Will you cut that out? You and your fucking gum.” Distracted, Hutch griped at Jack. “Yeah, like I want to touch your dick,” he added, turning back to Philbert.

“You offerin’?”

“You offerin’?” Starsky whined through his nose, mimicking Phil. “Ain’t nobody gonna offer. You’re gonna have to pay for it from some fat hooker with the clap who needs money bad enough that she don’t throw up when she sees it.”

“Pack of assholes,” Philbert said, got up and walked off.

The other boys had all settled on the floor—one reclined on an elbow, another to the left of him leaned against the couch, one against the far wall. All of them stared up at the screen. Hutch’s hand was down his pants again. “God, look at her go,” he said, rubbing his long fingers down the column of his cock. Jack nodded, agreeing, then casually slipped a hand onto Hutch’s erection. Starsky’s eyes snapped wide open, shocked. Hutch looked at Jack, then at Starsky. Then he shrugged and leaned back on both hands.

Starsky made a protesting sound, then stopped himself. His face felt hot and spots swam in his vision. Hutch jerked his hips up at Jack’s touch and stifled a groan, his eyes down to slits. Then he opened them wide, his gaze hot on Starsky’s.

 _Is he fucking_ teasing _me?_  All the horniness and frustration and want boiled over. “Who _don’t_  you fuck?” Starsky demanded.

Hutch’s eyes opened wide. “Haven’t fucked you yet,” he said and smiled, looking like a choirboy. “Want to, though.”

“Jesus, ” Jack said. “I feel demoted.”

“Goddamn,” Starsky swore, trying to ignore the way Hutch’s words went right to his dick. He stood unsteadily. He felt vaguely ridiculous, trying to get up and walk witha monster woodyknocking around between his legs. His ears buzzed and the heat rose off his body in waves. He looked down at Hutch and for one utterly insane instant teetered on the edge of dropping down and shoving his mouth over Hutch’s cock, sucking him hard and deep, might even have done it and fuck ’em all but for Jack’s big hand in the way, rubbing. Hutch made a sound deep in his throat, eyes soft, pupils wide. Jack looked up at Starsky lazily, a glint in his eye, still chewing slowly on his gum.

Starsky wanted to break Jack’s hand.

Hutch saw it in him almost before Starsky felt it—anger with maybe a split second reaction time left before he hit somebody—and pushed Jack’s hand away.

But Starsky was already heading for the door. Seemed like he’d been doing a lot of that lately.

Philbert came back in and dropped down in Starsky’s place. Starsky took one last look back and saw it. Somehow it was the last straw.

An hour later and Starsky was back. He’d been sick to his stomach, out on the rocky shore back of Jack’s house, and then he’d taken a walk. The air had cooled, but he could still smell a little of the lake in it. It almost looked like the ocean, wide open, no opposite shore visible. The banks were steep here, and all around were aspen and pine trees. It looked lonesome, rugged, and beautiful.

There was a breeze that ruffled over his hair. Felt good, but he was still out of sorts, agitated.

The walk didn’t help, so then he’d run, legs slashing the night air fast and furious, stumbling over rocks. Still didn’t help—in fact, once he’d stopped, he thought he might be sick again for the first few minutes after.

He didn’t know what to do anymore.

He remembered Hutch standing in the lake beside him on the last day before he’d went back home last summer, remembered the sun on his yellow hair and the strange color the light made of his eyes. Remembered the desperation in them. He remembered wanting to fix things for him that couldn’t be fixed, wishing so hard to be able to do something that his chest ached with it. Remembered touching him and being excited and scared and wanting him so bad. He’d held onto the feeling through the whole long winter, believing in what they’d felt, the two of them, but it was gone. Just a dream.

He wished he were home. Not at his aunt’s house, but home, with his real parents. Both of them.

Hutch wasn’t in the game room. Starsky went up to the first floor, steps dragging. Felt like he’d been run over by a truck. He looked in all the rooms, but Hutch wasn’t there, and sudden instinct made his heart climb into his throat.

He found him on the second floor in one of the bedrooms. The moon, nearly full, streamed cold light in through a window.

A big guy with brown curly hair held Hutch’s legs spread while Philbert climbed aboard the lean body. It all came in disjointed flashes of memory to Starsky, later—Hutch stretched over the length of the bed, his flat stomach heaving with panic. His face sheened with sweat, the fear in his eyes. Philbert’s ass was broad and white in the darkness. The big moron who held Hutch’s ankles was slack-jawed and open-mouthed, hard-on free of his pants and bobbing in the air.

Starsky picked up the desk lamp by the door and broke it over the moron’s shoulder, rage pushing him to try and drive it down through the clavicle. Moron yelled, dropping his hands from Hutch’s ankles, gripping at the shoulder with one hand. Starsky slammed a fist in his face. Philbert turned, still straddling Hutch, and Starsky punched him hard in the face, then again in the chest, then again. Philbert rolled off Hutch’s body and onto the floor. “Get the hell out of here,” Starsky grated. “I’ll bust your fucking faces in, I’ll kill you if you don’t get out,  _now_.”

Moron fled. Phil picked himself off the floor where he’d fallen. His mouth was bleeding and he wiped it. He put a hand to his chest as if it hurt, then reached over for his clothes, but Starsky snatched them up and threw them out in the hallway. “Out, Queerbert.”

Philbert scowled, his eyes gone small and mean. “Payback’s hell, Starsky.”

“I haven’t even started. Gonna be lots more to pay back when I’m done. That’s a promise.” And he kicked him in the ass, slamming the door closed behind him.

“You _goddammed_  idiot,” Starsky said, stomping to the headboard and leaning over Hutch, working on the belt that tied him. “All you know how to do is hurt yourself,” he ranted. Hutch’s hands fell back to the mattress overhead and he looked up at Starsky, saying nothing. “All summer long, Hutch, all goddamned  _summer_ you’re busy fucking yourself up. What the hell are you doing?”

Hutch lunged up and wrapped his arms around Starsky’s back. Starsky lost his balance, falling forward on top of Hutch. Hutch folded around him like an octopus, legs and arms holding him gently.

Starsky reared back and threw him violently off, the mattress springs beneath squeaking as his body flew back hard on the bed. “Cut it out! You can’t fuck every goddamned problem of yours till it goes away!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I want to  _help_  you, I want you to be okay,” and suddenly knew he was imploring.

“Things got bad last winter. I tried.” Hutch’s voice finally came, sounding rusty, rising from some buried part.

“Tried how?”

“Don’t give me that look, dammit! I tried. Tried to stay out of his way, tried listening to Mom. Made deals with God. I can’t make him stop. It doesn’t matter to him what I want.” Hutch’s voice was rough, angry, but it implored, too, just as Starsky’s had.

Starsky brought his hands around Hutch’s shoulders, wrapped them around underneath Hutch’s body, felt the heat of his back curl into the palms of his hands. Hutch pulled him back down and wrapped around him again, arms, legs, and Starsky spoke in his ear. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It got worse. Really . . . worse. Nothing you coulda done ’cept worry.” Hutch rubbed a hand down his spine, slow.

“What  _happened_?” Hutch wouldn’t answer. “So what, you want me to stand by and watch you do this shit to yourself now? I can’t.”

“I missed you,” Hutch said. Starsky drew back to look at him. “More than anything.” Hutch buried a hand in the back of Starsky’s hair, moved his fingers through it. His eyes were pale gray, leached of color in the moonlight.

“Then why have you been acting like I’m the long-lost cousin that shoulda stayed lost?” Starsky asked, knowing he was falling, but talking anyway.

Hutch ignored the question. “If we do . . . this. If we do. What am I gonna do when you leave?” His voice was low.

“I don’t know,” Starsky whispered back. “Don’t know myself.” Hutch’s hand against the back of his head pressed down gently and then Starsky’s lips were on Hutch’s, a brush of warmth, then fitting his mouth to him, letting himself feel, letting himself be felt, moving slow, something he swore to himself that he’d do if he ever got the chance again.

To make sure Hutch knew he meant it.

 

 

_-1975-_

He couldn’t get up on his own, so he waited for them to come instead, waited for the end of it.

Someone else came. A uniform. The guy kneeled beside him, hand on his wrist, counting, then tried to get him to sit up, but Hutch couldn’t uncurl from himself.

He squinted at the uniform.  _Bernie._ He remembered him. If Bernie were there then Starsky would be. He waited, trying to hold on, float above his body’s misery. It wasn’t even close to possible.

He heard the Torino, heard the brakes. “Hutch, great,” came a voice, low, stressed. Hutch knew that voice anywhere, anytime. He heard them talking and then Starsky hauled him up, touched his face, looked into his eyes. Grabbed his arm. He didn’t want him to look, but he didn’t try to pull away.

Starsky saw.

_He knows what I am now._

His stomach wrenched. Only acid flooded his mouth. He made some noise in his throat—protest, sorrow. For years he’d been a cop, took care of others, was the person people came to when they needed help. Now . . . what the fuck was he?

A junkie. Lying in an alleyway.

He dived for Starsky’s lap and Starsky pulled him in. Hutch held on. He couldn’t bear that dawning incredulous look, the disbelief, the recognition. It stayed in his mind’s eye like a stain. But Hutch hung onto Starsky anyway.

Starsky ran the few steps down the alleyway. Bernie bent over a crumpled, dirty body on the ground and suddenly Starsky couldn’t remember being more scared. He didn’t falter, had to see, and then he did, and nothing could have prepared him for Hutch, collapsed on the pavement, panting shallow breaths like a dog that’d been poisoned.

No one would believe that this man could ever again be the same man Starsky had seen last at the station only days ago, tossing change for the candy machine to him: happy, strong, looking forward to seeing his lady.

Nobody but Starsky.

He crouched down beside his partner.

 

 

_-Summer 1964-_

Hutch moaned against Starsky’s mouth and pulled at the bottom of Starsky’s shirt, fingers grazing over his side. Starsky squirmed a little, his lips forming an unwilling grin against Hutch’s.

“What the hell?” Hutch asked, sounding outraged, but dragging his fingers against Starsky’s side, on purpose this time. Starsky jumped a little but remained undeterred. He sat up, pulling his shirt up over his head and flung it into the air. Then his mouth was back on Hutch’s.

“Pants, dummy,” Hutch panted against Starsky’s lips. Starsky kissed him again, kicked his shoes off, then wiggled and yanked his shorts and underwear down. He kicked them off. Hutch opened his mouth again but Starsky settled his body against him, matched his cock to Hutch’s, and what came out of Hutch’s mouth was a gasp instead of words.

“Shut up,” Starsky said unnecessarily, and his lips found Hutch’s again, found them dry so he licked them, one small spot at a time, kissed them, moved over to the next spot. Hutch’s lips glided against his own, asking for more. Starsky tried to keep it slow but Hutch arched up against him, smooth skin rubbing over Starsky, writhing, heat and hardness straining together. It was like one of the dreams he’d had all winter, feeling Hutch’s dick stroking against him, all frantic need. His cock ached and a shudder rippled down his back, his hips moving helplessly against Hutch.

The door opened and a black silhouette stood outlined in the backlight.

“You really are a couple of queers, aren’t you?” Jack asked.

“I thought you were queer when you sucked me off,” Hutch shot back, and Starsky flashed on the image: Jack’s head bobbing down over Hutch, Hutch screaming his name. Something he didn’t know to name both curled and spread in his gut.

“Get the fuck out,” Starsky said flatly.

“My house, remember?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. Get out.”

Jack smiled. “Sure. But in about two minutes the party’ll be moving up here to check out the action.”

The two of them lay on the bed without moving. Finally Hutch sighed. “Where’s my fucking clothes?” He sat up, his cock swaying against his abdomen. He ran a hand through his hair and shot Jack a poisonous look.

Jack laughed. “I don’t think you keep them on long enough to remember anymore.”

“Fuck you.” Hutch glared at the silhouette.

“Looks like I’ll have to wait my turn,” said Jack, and the thing in Starsky’s gut exploded. He leaped up, but Jack slammed the door in his face.

“Two minutes,” came the voice on the other side of the door. Starsky ripped open the door but Jack was already halfway down the stairs. Starsky looked down at himself, remembering his nakedness in time. “You’re just fun in the sun to him, Starsky,” he called back. “Somebody he feels sorry for. Somebody who’d do anything for him. And he knows it.”

Starsky stayed there at the door, staring blankly. A hand encircled his bicep. “Starsky?” Hutch turned him around, his hand moving up to Starsky’s shoulder, squeezing there. “What’d he say to you?”

Starsky returned the look but said nothing. He turned back into the room searching for his clothes.

The roads in Duluth were steeper than hell, and Starsky was a little nervous with Hutch driving in the shape he was in. The hot-damn shiny new driver’s license in Hutch’s possession in no way helped Starsky relax. On top of that, it’d taken forever to get over the bridge—they’d had to wait for a freighter to pass beneath it. Finally they’d gotten over and onto the Point’s main road, then pulled off onto a narrow crossroad, then into Hutch’s driveway. They were surprised when a car approached from the opposite direction and pulled in behind them.

“Hey, that’s Vanessa’s father’s car,” Hutch said. “Now what in the hell would she . . . “

The car door behind them opened slowly. There was a pause, and then they saw her get out and walk toward them, her black dress enfolding her body softly, clinging to her as she moved. Starsky had to whistle. Hutch just followed her progress in the rearview and said nothing.

She stopped beside Hutch’s door and bent. Hutch rolled down the window. “I just saw you pull in.”

“Yeah, just got home. You look beautiful, Van.”

She smiled but it revealed absolutely nothing. Her face looked white against the darkness of the night and the black hair. “May I get in?”

Hutch’s brow rose. “We’re just about to get out.”

“Not just yet?” she asked him, and something in her gaze made him nod.

“I’ll get in the back,” Starsky offered, more than a little curious. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Bucket seats and all.” Van gave him a small smile and came around to his side.

Starsky opened the Rivieria’s door and stepped out, then into the back. He swung an arm from her to the seat with a flourish. “My lady.”

She smiled with a little more warmth. “Starsky,” she said, sliding into the seat as gracefully as she did everything else. He nodded and put an arm over the back of the seat. His fingers touched her hair. She didn’t pull away as he’d expected.

Van looked at Hutch. “You’ve been drinking,” she observed. Neither of them bothered to answer. She looked down at her lap, her hair sliding over her shoulder.

Hutch pushed it back gently, and when he had her attention, said, “Vanessa?” He noticed her makeup was a little smudged – there was black under her eyes.

“Things happen, sometimes, and you never expect it. You know?” She paused. “Like when Kennedy was shot. Remember how crazy everyone got after we heard the announcement at school?”

“I remember looking over at you. You didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stared out the window, while everyone around you talked and cried.” Something in her face made Hutch’s voice gentle.

“You know me. I don’t like being taken by surprise,” she said, and then her lip trembled. Just a moment, but Hutch saw it. “Sometimes, though . . . ” She fell silent.

“You can’t have a plan for everything, Van, no matter how hard you try.”

Vanessa looked down again. Starsky thought maybe he should get out of the car and leave, but he didn’t want to interrupt whatever was unfolding.

“I try, Kenny, but you’re right. Sometimes it just doesn’t work, does it?” Her back shuddered, and Hutch laid a hand on her shoulder.

“What is it, Van? Tell me.”

“I thought you . . . ” she looked up. “I thought there might be something for us, Ken. At one point, it seemed . . . what happened?” Her voice was soft.

“Vanessa—” he started, then sighed. “I don’t think you can plan what’s going to happen between two people, can you? I mean, maybe after you come together, if things are right at some point you try and make plans, maybe. But even then, even with people you’ve known for a long time, people you think you know . . . you can’t just plot a course. We’re not machines.” Hutch smiled sadly. “If we could, I already would have changed a few things.”

“It’s him. Isn’t it?” Vanessa didn’t look back, but Starsky knew she was talking about him. Hutch looked out the window in the darkness, and the silence stretched out until Vanessa broke it again. “Well, I went on to Plan B. Because that’s how I am, Kenny. I’m a planner. Until—”

“—you get to where you want to be?” Starsky said, and Vanessa turned to look back at him, surprised, smiling at him again.

“Has something happened?” Hutch asked. He rubbed the top of her arm.

“Something I didn’t expect,” she said, and her smile turned as fragile as thinly blown glass. “Again.” She laughed. There was a hard edge to it. “I’m going to have to get better at this.”

“Why do this at all, Vanessa?”

“Things aren’t always what they seem. You should know that,” she answered and looked up at the house, then back to Hutch. “Isn’t that true?” Hutch’s hand left her shoulder. “Good family, good home. Good friends. It looks a lot different on the inside. Doesn’t it?” She looked amused for a moment when he gave her a grudging sidewise nod.

“What happened?”

“What happened is that he picked me up. He shook my father’s hand, very politely. Made a joke to my mother—it was just the right touch. I approved. We went to dinner. At. Mariner’s,” and her voice sounded the same, except there were cracks breaking in between the words, growing larger. “I had the salmon. I wanted something I could eat that wouldn’t be messy, as opposed to some of the seafood I’d normally order, but I—was on a date. And we—went to—the lighthouse—and he—he—” Her lower lip trembled. Her eyes looked out at him, huge, from somewhere deep and alone. She steadied herself with an effort.

“What?” Hutch whispered it.

“We were alone. He r-r—“

“Who did it. Van, who  _did_  it?”

“He dropped me off. I stayed outside awhile. I couldn’t go in. Just couldn’t. I have a set of Dad’s keys, you see. So I took the car.” She smiled, her eyes watery. “And here I am. Aren’t I something? Prom queen, voted most popular—everybody wants me, right? Except you. How did that happen? The boys I want always want me back. I’ve never wanted a boy before that didn’t give a damn about me—“

“I do give a damn—”

“All I’ve ever had to do is smile and they’re mine. Like, like— _puppies_  tumbling over themselves to get at me.” She laughed. “And then tonight. I thought I knew what he’d do—he—I—”

Hutch took her in his arms, pulling her close, murmuring soothing words in her ear, wiping her desperate, mascara-smeared face with gentle fingers. Starsky climbed awkwardly out of the car and stood there a moment, watching them: her tears, the way she reached out blindly, Hutch’s eyes closed, sorrow on his face, stroking her hair.

He went into the house.

 

 

_-1975-_

The light broke into his brain and shattered there, glittering shards that sliced deeply inside. He closed his eyes but the darkness held no relief. He got up on all fours on the bed.

_Gotta get up. Get out of here._

Then his back bowed as his insides hurled up his throat. Nothing came out. He got dizzy and his arms grew weak. He fell. Hands pulled at his body, into warmth. He was cold, so he tried to curl into it, but then a wave of pain turned his whole body into separate straining parts, working against each other.

Hands on his face. Stroking. Voice in his ear, soft, full of compassion.

_Help me. Make it stop._

What he got was more coffee. He flung it away and his body crabbed backward on the bed, then bowed with a cramp.

_Fuck you and the goddamned coffee!_

More stroking. The low voice. He wanted it to help.

_Please. I’ll do anything._

His hand fell on Starsky’s thigh. Moved up. Cupped him, shaking.

Starsky moved the hand away.

One minute Hutch was lying on the bed, still. The next he’d climbed up on his hands and knees. He cried out something unintelligible and then started gagging, but nothing came up. Starsky hurried to him, sat down, and pulled Hutch into his lap. He blinked away tears that by-God refused to bend to his will and go away and talked to Hutch, promising him he’d make it, wasn’t going to lose him, telling him stuff they’d be doing next week next month next year, together, soon as he was better. Reminding him there’d be a better.

He didn’t think Hutch believed it. When Hutch’s hand grasped him through his pants for the first time he was sure of it.

 

 

_-Summer 1964-_

Mr. Hutchinson and the two boys sat in the den, watching tv:  _The Dick Van Dyke Show_. Onscreen Laura told Mel the baby looked different. Rob thought maybe he’d brought the wrong baby home. Starsky laughed, his grin broad and white in the flicker from the screen. It was the only light in the room.

Hutch smiled, too. “It’s a repeat, Starsk.”

“I know. It’s a good one.”

“Can’t hear, boys,” Mr. Hutchinson frowned. He wore a white shirt wrinkled from a day’s work, tie lying on the end table. His shoes were off and the tips of them peeked out from under the couch.

Starsky nodded agreeably, still smiling, and crossed his arms over his chest. Hutch changed his position on the chair opposite the couch, crossing his legs and sitting Indian fashion. Mr. Hutchinson levered himself off the couch and left the room, going into the kitchen. They heard him and Hutch’s mom talking, then silence. Then he was back, glass in hand. Starsky eyed the glass but Hutch ignored it, saying something about going to Jack’s tomorrow. Starsky’s jaw dropped as he stared at him.

“Thought we weren’t going over there,” he finally settled on, not wanting Mr. Hutchinson to catch on to the fact they’d had an argument with Jack.

“Why not?” Mr. Hutchinson asked. He sounded irritated.

“Ah . . . little disagreement is all. You know how it is,” Starsky said, telling the truth because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Jack’s been Hutch’s friend almost since they were born.” Mr. Hutchinson frowned.

“Yeah, but he’s got some crazy idea that he can pick and choose my friends. Like I’d let him,” Hutch said. He shrugged. “I think he’s figured it out now. He wants both of us to come over tomorrow. Want to go?” he asked Starsky.

“Naw. Let him stew,” said Starsky.

“That’s not how you treat friends, David,” Mr. Hutchinson said. His consonants sounded soft, and Hutch looked up at the ceiling, staring sightlessly. “Right?” He looked at his son.

“We’ll take care of it, Dad,” Hutch said, finally looking down and over at his father.

Mr. Hutchinson looked back at the screen and frowned. “I missed the damned ending.”

“Ah, they’re all the same. Family’s fine, the baby’s the right one. You didn’t miss much,” Starsky said. He looked over at Hutch.

“You two couldn’t keep quiet just until the end,” Mr. Hutchinson grumbled. Hutch got up.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere where I won’t bother you, Dad,” Hutch answered, a long thin shadow that towered over his father on the couch.

“You’re a smartass, aren’t you?” Mr. Hutchinson said, out of the blue. Starsky blinked, realizing what he’d heard.

Hutch shrugged. “Sure. If you say so.”

“Sit down!”

Hutch sighed and sat. Starsky thought his face looked flushed, but it was hard to tell in the low light.

“Richard?” Mrs. Hutchinson asked, poking her head into the den. She smiled. “Hi, boys. Good show?” Starsky nodded.

“I’d like another drink, Marla.” Mr. Hutchinson held out his glass.

“Not now, Richard,” she answered lightly. He looked at her, his glasses flashing in the light of the television, but he didn’t say anything. After a moment’s hesitation she left the room.

“Dad, I—” Hutch started.

“I want you to keep your mouth shut. Is that possible?” Mr. Hutchinson asked, his voice low and vehement, and Starsky suddenly knew exactly where Hutch’s occasional icy expression came from. “I’d like to see one goddamned show in its entirety without being interrupted.”

“You could if you’d let me go,” Hutch said. It sounded as if he said it through gritted teeth.

“You’ll stay put until I tell you to.”

Hutch stood up. Mr. Hutchinson stood, too, and nearly lost his balance.

“What’re you gonna do, Dad?” Hutch asked, staring at his father. Mr. Hutchinson grabbed him by the shoulders and began to push him back to his seat. Starsky stood up. “Sit down, Starsk,” Hutch snapped.

Mr. Hutchinson tried to push his son down into his seat, but Hutch didn’t move. Then suddenly he did, folding down into the chair, and Mr. Hutchinson tilted and fell forward, his hand bracing against Hutch’s chest. Hutch grabbed his father’s shoulder and pushed him back with a convulsive movement, and Mr. Hutchinson rocked back nearly upright. He watched his son and then slowly lowered his face to his. “Lay a finger on me again, Ken,” he said, his voice low. “Just try it.” Hutch didn’t move, and Mr. Hutchinson shook a finger in his face. “Don’t you move a muscle. Not a muscle. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Hutch said, his voice strangled.

“One more word. Just one.”

Hutch leaned forward, grabbing both his father’s shoulders. He pushed. Mr. Hutchinson stumbled back and fell down on his ass, his feet flying up in the air. His glasses flew off. Hutch looked horrified. His face twisted up, then smoothed, and he jumped up and walked out of the room.

Mr. Hutchinson lay awkwardly on the floor and gaped up at Starsky. Starsky bent and picked up his glasses, handed them to him and waited for him to put them on. He held out a hand, and after some hesitation, Mr. Hutchinson took it. Starsky helped him back onto the couch. Beneath the slackness in the older man’s face, something like shame grew.

Starsky ignored it and headed for the door.

If was after midnight, and Starsky crept out into the hall in his underwear. At the far end of the hall, a large window let in the tree limb shadows, swaying in the wind.

Starsky made his way to Hutch’s bedroom door and opened it quietly. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him carefully and stood, listening and watching. It was even darker in Hutch’s room than out in the hall, but he gradually made out Hutch, lying face down and sprawled over the bed.

“Starsk?” Hutch’s voice came to him, whispering, and Starsky jumped, startled. Hutch turned over. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought you were asleep from the looks of it.”

“No. Just lying here, thinking.”

Starsky took a deep breath. “You okay?”

“Some summer vacation for you this year—babysitting. My parents oughta pay you.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed.

Hutch laughed. “You know what, you don’t have to worry about me all the time. I’m a big boy.”

“Yeah? Well, sometimes you don’t act it.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“What you did to your dad.”

“What I did?”

“You _pushed_  him down, for Christ’s sake.”

“I-I didn’t mean it-just pushed him away. He just went down.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty loaded.”

A pause.

“Better than him hitting me again.”

“When did he hit you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does. To me.”

“You come in here worrying about how I’m mistreating my father and I’m supposed to bare my soul, tell you all this shit? Well, I won’t. Won’t change anything anyway. He’s still gonna stay the drunken asshole he is.”

”Don’t say that.”

“What? That he’s an asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“But he’s an asshole.”

“Shut up!”

”What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you defending him all of a sudden?”

“At least you still got a dad!” Starsky yelled. He clapped a hand over his own mouth. “Hutch—”

“Starsky—” Hutch said at the same time. He sat up in bed, the sheet falling around his waist.

“Yeah.”

“How did your dad die? You never told me.”

Starsky didn’t answer.

“Still not gonna tell me? I’m your best friend, aren’t I?”

“ _No_.”

“I’m not your best friend?”

“Don’t be a fuckhead.”

“Shit, Starsky, I can’t read your mind. No what, then?”

“Quit pushing me!”

“C’mon.” Hutch patted the bed beside him. “It’s just me. Isn’t that what you told me before?”

Starsky sat down beside him, their thighs brushing. The bed creaked as Starsky shifted and sighed. “Somebody killed him. Shot him down. He died down the street at the grocer’s after work, bleeding all over the parking lot. I wasn’t there. Nobody who—none of us, the family, was there. ”

“God,” Hutch said, and pressed his face into Starsky’s hair at the side of his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Mom tried to tell me it was a robbery and Dad got in the way of it happening, but that’s bullshit. Otherwise, Joe’d never gotten involved. That guy’s got connections, all on the wrong side of the law, and after Dad died, he helped us, like he had some obligation to us. He was real good to us, too. And then once he was in the kitchen with Mom and I heard them talking. He told her everything was settled. Mom started to cry. So I ran in there and I asked. You know, ‘Why are you crying? What’s been settled?’ Mom kept crying, shaking her head no. She didn’t want Joe to talk to me, but Joe looked at me and said, ‘The men responsible for your father’s death have been dealt with.’ Just like that, Hutch. And I knew he’d killed them. Mom made him leave, and the next thing you know she sends me to live with my aunt.”

“Wow. I mean—shit. What the hell does it all mean? I mean, it sounds like . . . like something out of a movie or something.”

“Sooner or later I’m gonna find out. She can’t keep me from knowing.” Hutch put a hand on his back and rubbed it. “The night before Dad died . . . I got in trouble. I was out with some of the guys and we, uh, lifted a few things over at that little candy shop on Fifth. Just being assholes, I guess . . . showing off or something. Anyway, we got caught. Pop was ready to scalp me. He whipped the hide off me and sent me to my room without eating dinner. You know me, I missed my dinner an awful lot.”

Hutch laughed softly.

“It was during the summer and Pop always left for work before I got up. And you know, that night he was so mad at me, that was the last time I ever saw him.”

“God, Starsky.”

“And when he used the belt on me? I lost my shit and called him an asshole. He was real pissed, dared me to repeat it. I let my temper get the best of my common sense that time, maybe, but nobody said I’m not a fast learner. I shut my mouth. But that’s the last thing . . . ”

Hutch rubbed his arms and Starsky glared at him and jerked back. “I got a point to make here, Hutch. You still got your dad.”

“Did . . . did you ever think your dad didn’t love you, Starsky?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’m glad.”

“Your dad loves you.”

“Yeah. He showed up last winter for the school play and fell off the goddamn school steps in front of all my friends because he was drunk off his gourd—that guy loves me. And the guy who nearly killed us both picking me up from the movies stone drunk a couple of months ago because he forgot to keep a hand on the steering wheel so that we almost went off the side of a hill loves me. He just loves the booze more.”

“He loves you. He’s got a problem.”

“And I love him, Starsky. And sometimes I hate him.”

“Nicky and me got in a fight after Pop died. Told me Pop was ashamed of me. Called me a prick for hurting dad just before he died. Funny, he’s the one who does all the stealing now. Cheating people. Anything for an extra buck.”

“Nicky’s a punk.”

“He’s right about one thing. Pop died and it was too late to fix it. It’s not that way with you and your dad.”

“Starsky, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted out. He’s my dad, for God’s sake.”

Starsky put his hand over Hutch’s on the bed. “Okay. But I hope you let him know it.”

 

 

_-1975-_

“I just want some candy!” Hutch tried to break Starsky’s grip on him at the door, his hands slapping at Starsky’s arms. “Just let me out!”

“I can remember a man who hated candy,” Starsky murmured, holding him by the arms.

“Yeah? I can remember a guy who liked it when I touched his dick,” Hutch sneered, his face transformed into someone Starsky didn’t recognize, and Starsky dropped his hands off Hutch’s arms like they’d turned into snakes. Hutch’s face shifted again, lightning fast, crumpling into pure misery. He stood there swaying and ducked his head, fingers rubbing over his forehead.

Starsky put his hands on Hutch’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, babe, I’m sorry.”

Hutch looked up at him, weary and sleepy slow, like a child. “You’re sorry? For what?”

“I hate to see you hurt, Hutch.”

“Everything hurts. Make it stop.”

“It’ll go away. I promise you.”

“I just need some help. Need you. Want to touch you,” Hutch said. His hand rubbed Starsky’s thigh.

“Cut it out, Hutch! We haven’t done that shit since high school!”

“And I miss it. Miss you,” Hutch breathed. His body crowded Starsky’s close to the door and rubbed against his, up and down.

Starsky kept his eyes wide open, staring down at Hutch’s face. “And what do you want in return? Huh?”

Hutch’s hand was on his cock, trying to curl around him, rubbing him slow. His eyes widened as he felt Starsky harden, and he smiled. “I give you what you want, you give me what I need.”

“What do you need, Hutch?”

“I-I need out, need out.”

“For?”

“Some medicine.”

“Hutch. Stop. I’m not gonna get it for you. You can beat this.”

“Goddammit!” Hutch erupted, pounding the wall by Starsky’s head. “Let me out! You know where the stuff is!”

“No. You got it? Nothing you think I want from you is gonna matter, not when it comes to this. Not ever, Hutch.”

Hutch’s hand was back on his cock, still hard. “You want it. You always did.”

“Not like this. God, not like this.”

Hutch squeezed him harder, then harder still. Starsky’s eyes teared, but he didn’t try to move away.

“You were a goddamned lousy fuck, even back then.” Hutch let go suddenly and backed away from Starsky, then dropped his head down into his hands. He sank down onto his knees and doubled over, rocking.

Starsky knelt beside him, rubbing his shoulder, and Hutch turned and threw himself at Starsky.

Trying to hold on.

 

 

_-Summer 1964-_

“What kind of a watch is that?” Jack asked Starsky.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “God, you had to ask.”

Starsky grinned, his first real smile since Jack had shown up earlier at Hutch’s place. Starsky had refused to go to Jack’s last week, but didn’t protest when he’d knocked at Hutch’s door out of the blue and suggested they hang out together. They’d headed down to the lake for a swim.

“This is a dive watch,” Starsky said proudly. “It’s from Germany. See? B-l-a-n-c-p-l-a-i-n. It’s their 50 fathoms model, waterproof. Mr. Jacques Cousteau himself wears one just like this baby.”

“Why in the hell you’d think you need a dive watch is something I’ll never understand. Bet that piece of junk cost you an arm and a leg,” Hutch said.

“I need a waterproof watch ’cause I’m here in this ball-freezing lake of yours every summer.”

“Where’d you get the money for something like that—is it hot?” Jack asked.

“Hot? Hell no. It’s used. I got it at a pawnshop. Saved up the whole winter for it, too.”

“Oh, so somebody  _else_  stole it and pawned it.  _Then_  you bought it,” Jack said, and Hutch grinned.

Starsky threw Jack a look and flopped down on the towel, and Jack settled down beside him. “Hey, why don’t you test it out?”

“I’ve been wearing it in the water all summer. Don’t need testin’.”

“Well, have you done any actual diving with it?”

“Do you see a dive suit anywhere on me? Did I forget I have one on or something?” Starsky pantomimed looking over his shoulder and moved a hand around over his back, searching.

“You do have a knack for picking smart-asses for friends, don’t you, Hutchinson?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Hutch asked and Jack whipped his towel around and cracked it at Hutch’s side.

“Hey! Cut it out!” Hutch rubbed his side and threw sand at Jack, who just barely managed to turn his head aside before his face was hit.

“Jack. Who’s Van been dating, do you know?”

Jack looked up at Hutch, his eyes glinting. “You lost your chance, did you, choirboy? How’d you fuck that up? I thought she was all over you.”

Hutch shrugged. “We went out. No big deal.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“So, who’s she been dating?”

“Awfully curious for someone you claim you’re not interested in, aren’t you?” Hutch gave Jack an impatient look. “Okay, okay. She’s playing the field. Nobody regular since you.”

“She won’t tell me who she’s been out with,” Hutch said, rubbing his side where Jack had whipped the towel over him.

“Oh ho, I think we got us a jealous boyfriend over here. What do you say, Starsky?”

Starsky shrugged. “Could be.”

“Yep, I think we do.”

Starsky frowned at him, and Jack smiled slowly. “Maybe we got us  _another_  jealous boyfriend here, too, huh? Man. What a triangle.”

“Don’t start,” Hutch warned. “Thought you wanted to come here and make up for your general sorry assholiness last week.”

Jack held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just calling it as I see it. Maybe Starsky here is a little jealous of our Vanessa. You’re his free ride every summer, after all.”

“You know, I ain’t the one holding the booze and jerk parties just so I can jack off my buddies,” Starsky said.

“You  _do_  like to get your hands on my dick, Jack,” Hutch said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. Starsky snickered.

Jack flushed. “Okay, okay, I said I was here to make the peace. Let’s drop it. So what do you say to testing out that watch of yours?”

Starsky’s eyes were level on Jack’s. “What do you have in mind?”

“It’s a dive watch. So dive with it. You can hold your breath, can’t you? Get down to the bottom and time yourself . . . say, a minute and a half? We’ll see if it still works when you come back up. I bet that’s a knock-off cheap piece of shit that won’t last a minute under any kind of test. If it does, I’ll buy you a brand damn new one, anyway. No imitations, the real thing.”

“A minute and a half?” Hutch repeated. “You’re full of shit.”

“I can do it.”

Hutch turned to stare at Starsky. “You moron. Just throw it in the goddamned water for a minute or two, same thing.”

“No way, I’d never find it again. I said I can do it, no problem. And Wonder Boy here’s gonna buy me a brand new watch when it’s done.”

“I don’t believe you’re gonna buy into this. It’s stupid!”

Starsky shrugged. “He’s jealous. Got some weird idea that this’ll prove he’s the better man. And me, I get a watch out of it when he loses. Again.”

“What the hell are you talking about, losing?”

“Tell him what you lost, Jack,” Starsky said, and smiled when Jack threw him a furious look. “Hutch just ain’t that bright, so you’ll have to explain it to him.” He walked into the water, taking several deep breaths, then some quick, shallow breaths, never releasing all the oxygen from his lungs. He waded in, taking his time, got in up to his shoulders and swam out. Then he turned and called out, “I’m ready.”

Hutch was standing up at the shoreline, already looking worried, and Starsky felt a wave of exasperated affection at the sight. Jack stood close beside him. He nodded at Starsky, and Starsky took one long last breath and dived.

The water was murky. This deep out it was even colder. Starsky swam strongly downwards. Forty-five seconds passed and Starsky started to feel the tightness in his lungs. He let out a small stream of bubbles, allowing some of the stored oxygen to escape, allowing him to stay below instead of floating upwards.

The only sounds were the whoosh of displaced water as he moved, dull and yet loud in his ears. It was darker down here, growing darker still. Closing in on him. Starsky looked up, at the light towards the surface.

The water pressed in on his body and his lungs hurt. He felt the first threads of fear and pushed them away.

 _I know what I’m doin_ g _. Just gotta keep my cool_.

There were spots before his eyes, gathering, greater. One minute, thirty seconds. He could surface, he’d made it.

He didn’t.

 _Just a little more_ , _just a little, then I’ll swim up_.

One minute, forty-five seconds.

_Go._

He let the panic out, let it propel him to the surface. His lungs were fire.

Hutch was already in the water. Searching. Starsky broke the surface, gasping, ten feet away from him.

“You fucking  _idiot_!” Hutch roared, then swam over, cutting the water in strong strokes. He grabbed Starsky. Hutch’s arm around his chest threatened to crack his ribs and nearly sent him under again.

“You trying to drown me?” he yelped, indignant.

“So help me God, I just might,” Hutch answered and squeezed tighter.

This time Starsky didn’t squirm away. “Not until that son of a bitch buys me a watch.”

 

 

_-1975-_

He was off the bed, standing in the middle of the room, swiping a hand through his dirty, sweat-soaked hair. He moved over to stand in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, his leg jittering, up- down up-down.

“Want a candy bar?”

Nothing.

“A drink?”

“No, okay, _no_. Quit asking. What I want you won’t give me.”

“What do you say to a shower, Hutch?”

“I don’t give a fuck about a shower, Starsky, give me what I need!” Hutch raged.

It galvanized Starsky. “I’m not getting you the stuff, Hutch, you hear me? It’s not what you need, dammit, it’s the last thing you  _need_!” He grabbed Hutch’s arm. “C’mon. In the bathroom.”

Hutch yanked his arm away and nearly lost his balance. “Fuck off!”

Starsky stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, staring at Hutch, his chest tight with something disguised as anger, compounded by exhaustion. Something that felt a lot like grief.

Hutch coughed once, twice, then his eyes watered and he bent over, holding his stomach. Starsky moved to him, touched his arm. “Oh Godgod  _goddammit!_ ” Hutch screamed, trying to uncurl himself. He slung Starsky’s arm away, eyes rimmed with red exhaustion.

Starsky stared at his face, stirred by a memory. He remembered his aunt the last time she entered the hospital. She was dying. She was thin and stringy, suffering carved into the harsh, starved lines of her face. Sometimes he saw the woman he remembered, but it was always a flash, here and then gone almost before he caught it. This woman wore his aunt’s body and borrowed her expressions but it was a masquerade, wasted replica with burning eyes, surrendering to the reigning agony of her own body.

A masquerade.

Some sick joke.

“Hey.”

Starsky’s head jerked up and he looked at Hutch, for a moment unable to see past the bruises and blood to find him. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

“Shower sounds good,” Hutch said, his voice soft. Reacting to Starsky’s reactions.

_Get hold of yourself. Hutch is strong. You need to be strong. He’ll make it._

Starsky nodded and opened his eyes. He followed Hutch into the bathroom and watched him brush his teeth, then turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature as Hutch pulled off his shirt, flinging it into the corner behind the commode. Next came the pants and underwear and he stood there naked, bruises lacing around his ribs, starkly traced over the white skin. Starsky reached out a hand as if mesmerized, touching the flesh there gently. Hutch flinched, but then instead of pulling away, he stepped closer until Starsky’s hand lay flat on his skin. Starsky felt the rise and fall of him as he breathed.

_He’s not dying. He’s coming back. He’s still Hutch._

Hutch stroked his fingers over Starsky’s, holding his eyes with his, then turned and stepped into the shower. Starsky stared at the curtain as if Hutch still stood there, shaken at the first real glimpse of Hutch he’d had since he found him.

He settled against the wall to wait. After a few minutes, he realized nothing was moving in there. The water made the same uninterrupted sounds.

“Hutch?”

He waited.

“Hutch!” he said, and in two steps was at the shower curtain. He pulled it aside. Hutch stood in the corner, not moving. “Babe?”

Hutch turned slowly and looked at him. His face was the color of chalk. “I need your help. Will you help me?”

“I will. I promise, Hutch.” He reached out a hand, but Hutch didn’t seem to see it.

“Cold. So cold,” said Hutch.

“Come out of there, then.” Hutch didn’t move, and Starsky stuck a hand into the spray. It wasn’t cold. He turned the hot water on a little more. “That better?”

Hutch didn’t answer.

“Will you come out?”

Nothing. Starsky started shedding clothes.

“You’d left a few weeks earlier, and Mom was at her sister’s,” Hutch said. His eyes rolled, looking out at him from the bruised mask. “He was so fucked up. Chasing me all over the house. He hit me. Said I’d fucked up the business, said Jack’s dad didn’t want to use the company anymore. I went into the lake again just to get away from him, you know? It was fucking cold. Sort of hoped he’d come in after me. Hoped he’d drown.”

Starsky got into the shower, his heart speeding, booming in his own ears.

“I got a cramp. I yelled for him to help me, screamed for him when I got really scared. He turned his back on me. Went up to the house. I went under. It was so cold. Cramp cut me in half.”

Starsky reached out for Hutch, folded himself around his skinny body and held him tight.

“The water was green . . . dim. You’re drowning and you look up, around, everything is that blank color. Walls of it, all around, going black. There was so much pressure. I was sinking.”

Starsky remembered a little of that feeling himself from long ago, and his hand wrapped around the back of Hutch’s neck, stroking, reminding himself that Hutch’d made it. He was here, alive.

“How did you get out?” he whispered into Hutch’s wet hair.

“Don’t know. I thought I was dead, and then the cramp just . . . let go. I thought about you, though. When I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Wondered . . . “

“What?” Starsky murmured, stroking Hutch’s skin wherever he could reach.

“How bad it’d be for you. Knowing I died that way.” With the bruises painted over his skin and his wet hair pushed back from his face, he looked bare and defenseless. Starsky couldn’t help the shudder that rippled down his back, and Hutch pushed himself still closer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Starsky asked.

“Never told you lots of things.”

“Why? W _hy?_ ” Starsky demanded, unable to help himself. The water streamed over his back and dripped from his curls. “I don’t get it. I would have helped you.”

“Yeah, what would you have done? What  _could_  you have done?” Hutch demanded, pulling back. His eyebrow lifted and his eyes were cool, questioning. Starsky wanted to shake him, wanted to grin in relief. Here without a doubt was his Hutch.

“Doesn’t matter what. Something. Come up there and got you. Stayed with you, or made you come home with me.”

“Yeah, or maybe like when Dad forced you to go home, right? You left and you never looked back.”

Starsky felt heat move over his face in a wave. “I would have done  _anything_ , fucking anything. You  _knew_  that, but you practically helped him shove my ass out the door! I  _wrote_  you and you never answered!”

“Sure you did. You practice your revisionist history much?”

Starsky jabbed a finger in Hutch’s chest, the water spraying over them both. “It’s not true, so don’t say it. I never wanted anyone—” he shut his mouth.

“Finish what you’re saying, Starsky.” Starsky stared at him and Hutch’s eyes wavered, grew uncertain. “Tell me. Okay? If it’s true, I need—oh fuck, I need—” Starsky pulled him back into his arms.

“How can you stand there and ask it, Hutch?” Starsky said. His voice cracked. “I never cared about  _anyone_  the way I do you. If I thought for a second you wanted my help, wanted  _me_ , I wouldn’t have let them separate us.”

“We were kids, Starsky! What the hell were you gonna do? We’d have ended up running away, doing something crazy. That’d get you locked up in Juvie. Maybe something worse.”

“I didn’t need your fucking protection, Hutch! You needed me and you shut me out!” Hutch looked away, and Starsky’s eyes widened. “And I let you do it. I bought it because of Jack, the whole thing he threw at me, hook, line and sinker. Goddamn.” He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was ragged. “How am I supposed to feel, knowing I left you alone with your father—that bastard—”

“Don’t call him that!”

“I’ll call anybody anything I want who—”

“Remember, Starsk?” Hutch interrupted, his voice soft. “Remember when you came into my room and reamed me out about pushing Dad that time?”

“God. I left you there and you almost died.” Starsky threw his head back and looked up at the ceiling, blinking, and then Hutch’s hands were on his face, pulling him down to look at him.

Hutch shook his head, smiling at him. “You always did think you had to babysit me.”

Starsky laughed, a miserable sound that caught in his throat.

“Not your fault.” And then Hutch’s mouth brushed over his, captured his. Starsky felt the long shudders ripple through Hutch’s body, the weak shakes, but behind it was a frantic, burning need that interrupted Starsky’s grief and replaced it with something else: wet on wet, sliding, slipping over him, rubbing, tongue pushing into his mouth, stroking his tongue. Starsky moaned. So goddamned long since he’d felt this. He wanted it, had wanted it for years, no matter how much he told himself to let it stay in the past.

“Starsky,” Hutch said against his lips. “I need something, please,  _something.”_

Starsky froze. He opened his eyes and looked at Hutch. Hutch’s blue eyes were fixed on his. He felt his face closing down, watched Hutch watching it close down, watched him realize.

Hutch sagged in the corner. “I always thought you’d do anything for me. Ever since we met,” he said, his voice gone perfectly level and colorless. His eyes were fixed on some unknown point.

“You always thought right,” Starsky said, not looking at him. He stepped out of the shower, shaken, trying to hold onto everything he believed about himself and Hutch.

 

 

_-Summer 1964-_

They sloshed out of the water to stand before Jack. Starsky thrust his arm in Jack’s face. “Works just fine,” he said. Jack stared down at his arm, at the watch. “I win.” He stared at Jack until Jack looked up at him. “How’s it feel, always playing second string?” He stepped closer into Jack’s space. Jack’s eyes were a mixture of sardonic humor and unease.

“You owe him a new watch,” Hutch said. “Later, Jack.” He picked up his towel and headed for the house. Starsky followed him up.

The back door closed and Hutch turned quick as lightning and shoved Starsky up against the refrigerator, holding his head there, fingers threading through Starsky’s wet hair. He kissed him, and Starsky’s cock rose up hard.

“Where’s your mom,” Starsky said against his mouth.

“Shopping. What’d you do that for, huh?” Hutch asked between kisses.

“He was askin’ for it. He’s like a dog, pissing on his territory,” Starsky gasped, then dived deeper into Hutch’s mouth.

Hutch pulled off him a moment. “I don’t think he’s the only dog in town,” he said to Starsky’s jaw and pushed his hips against Starsky, jammed his cock hard against him. Starsky groaned.

“Looks like you were impressed,” Starsky said, recovering himself enough to grin.

Hutch kissed the grin off his face. “Not impressed. Scared. I get horny when I get scared.”

“You do?” Starsky said around Hutch’s mouth.

“If you can’t tell I think I’m in trouble.”

“Then I’ll have to scare you some more, huh?”

“You do and you won’t live to regret it.”

“God, that just makes me hot,” Starsky said.

“Yeah. I know,” Hutch mumbled against his lips, and Starsky laughed in Hutch’s mouth.

Starsky lay naked on Hutch’s bed. Hutch kneeled at the end of it, running his fingers over Starsky’s bare skin, beginning at the tops of his feet, up to ankles, calves, trailing over warm skin, soft hair, thighs, hips. Hutch eased himself up over Starsky’s body, pressing himself on top of him slowly from the bottom up, matching every part of them together. Starsky groaned when their cocks first touched, when Hutch’s balls slid softly against him, and Hutch kissed the frantic pulse in his neck. Starsky’s hands rose overhead and curled around the bars on the headboard.

With a sudden, convulsive movement, Hutch twisted his hips, driving his cock hard against Starsky’s. Starsky gasped and pulled on the bars, straining up against him. Hutch smiled into his eyes and thrust against him again, then slid his body back down, mouth trailing over Starsky’s skin until he took his cock in a sudden wet slide.

Starsky cried out, humping into his mouth, and Hutch gagged a little and looked up at him, widening his eyes. Starsky nodded sheepishly.

Hutch settled down over him again and sucked him hard, up and down, running his tongue over the head, flitting with his tongue, then let him slide out of his mouth. He ruffled the hair of his crotch and watched Starsky’s dark cock bob wetly against his stomach. Starsky turned wild eyes down on him, but Hutch shook his head and stood up beside the bed.

He bent down, his mouth hovering over Starsky’s, warm breath wafting over his face, fitting his mouth to him and kissing him. Starsky reached for Hutch’s head and wrapped his fingers into the blond silk, pulled him down and thrust his tongue hard into his mouth. Hutch moaned, their lips sliding together urgently. They kissed, mouth, teeth, tongues exploring, touching, and Starsky tried to pull Hutch to him. Hutch pulled back, using only his mouth on him, and Starsky’s cock swelled and throbbed and ached until he was afraid he’d come before Hutch ever touched him again.

“Please,” he breathed against Hutch’s mouth, and then Hutch was on top of him, grinding his cock into his, the hard lengths rubbing together, and Starsky yelled up at the ceiling, fingers scrabbling over the sheets beneath him.

Hutch was off him again in a heartbeat, bending to take Starsky’s cock in his mouth, sucking hard, cheeks hollowed, tongue rubbing. Starsky came in long jolts, writhing, pushing the back of Hutch’s head helplessly down on him.

Starsky came down off the ceiling and looked at Hutch. Hutch’s head came up and his lips were rubbed red and swollen, his eyes soft on Starsky’s face.

“Come here, you,” Starsky said. Hutch did, pulling himself back up and kissing Starsky as if starved, and Starsky rolled him, grabbing his hips, then lowered his mouth to a nipple, biting and sucking. Hutch’s back arched and his face flushed, mouth open. Starsky dragged his lips down Hutch’s chest and over his stomach to his hipbone, Hutch’s cock leaping up, and suddenly Starsky was as starved for the taste of Hutch as Hutch had been for his mouth. He grabbed his cock and wrapped his mouth over him, pushing down and then up, sucking strongly, tongue swirling over the head. Hutch made a low strangled sound in his throat and thrust his hips, cock jerking hard, filling Starsky’s mouth with fluid. Starsky swallowed it.

Not his favorite taste, he had to admit. But right now he’d have done any damn thing the guy ever wanted of him and then some, though he’d never admit it to him.

Then again, staring down at that tired and happy face and utterly unable to keep what he felt off _his_  face, he had to bet Hutch already knew.

Two days later it all went to hell.

 

 

_-1975-_

Small waves crashed onto the lakeshore and dug in, clawing impressions in the sand. Hutch ran onto the beach ahead of him, shedding clothes as he went. He splashed into the lake and then dived, heading out from shore with a steady stroke, Starsky right behind him. Suddenly Hutch stopped swimming and turned to face him.

“No further.” And Hutch swam away. Blue-green ice formed on the surface between them.

“Hutch!” he called. Hutch turned to look at him again. His pupils were huge and his face slack and full, like a child’s. He was drunk, stoned. Something.

He smiled a sleepy smile at Starsky. “What is it, babe?”

“You’re out too far. Stay here with me.”

“Can’t. I tried,” was all he said. He started swimming again, and the ice grew larger and shifted, making a groaning sound.

Starsky started after him, started hammering at the ice and Hutch looked back, no longer smiling. His face was white, eyes cold ice chips. The water around him turned black, then the ice. He stared at Starsky as he sank. Starsky tried to reach him but couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.

Hutch reached out a hand just before he went under, and the black ice sealed him in.

Starsky’s hand splayed out over the ice, trying to reach him. “You wouldn’t let me, I would have come!” Still screaming, he found himself crouching on the shore.

Hutch was gone. The lake was inky and smooth. He curled up on the beach, shoulders shaking.

_-Summer 1964-_

They stumbled out of the water together and headed up the beach towards the house. There was a small L-shaped shed on the far side of the house that doubled as storage and pool house, and as they passed it, Hutch up ahead, Starsky grabbed his arm and pushed his back up against the wall, looking swiftly all around. Hutch looked at him, smiling, still breathing hard from their swim. He leaned back into the wall, the wind whipping at his hair. Starsky’s eyes moved down over Hutch’s smooth, tanned chest, the small patch of sand clinging near a nipple, and on impulse he lowered his head and brushed his cheek over the sand, rubbing it off. Hutch looked down at him, lids half-lowered over his eyes, and put a hand on Starsky’s face, guiding his mouth to his chest. Starsky stuck out his tongue and flicked the nipple with a stiffened tip, and Hutch’s mouth fell open and he made a soft, whispering groan. “Not a good idea out here, Starsk,” he said, even while he pulled him closer. Starsky bit the tip and then licked and Hutch shifted his back against the rough wood as Starsky’s hands roamed over him, rubbing his already stiffened cock through his swimsuit. Hutch put a hand under Starsky’s chin and pulled Starsky’s mouth up to him, gave him a kiss, and pulled back. “You know what you taste like, Starsk?” he said, low, his mouth just over Starsky’s.

Starsky opened his eyes wide, playful. “Tell.”

Hutch put a hand on his arm and swung him around so his back hit the shed, then dropped on his knees in one swift motion, pulling Starsky’s trunks down with him, and the next instant he’d managed to put nearly all of Starsky in his straining mouth, suckling, swallowing hard, trying to take him down further. “Oh God,” Starsky gasped, trying not to sink to the ground, trying not to lose control completely. Just as swiftly, Hutch moved back up to him and covered his mouth, plunging his tongue inside.

“You taste just like that,” he said, pulling just a fraction away. “Like what I need. Like somebody who keeps me from losing my mind, like somebody that makes me happy. Just like you always have ever since I met you.” He kissed him again. “Like you,” he whispered, and took his mouth again, deep, working him with frantic lips and tongue, exploring, tasting. Starsky moaned, trying not to let his legs collapse from out in under him.

His hands found Hutch’s waist and he pushed his trunks down enough to get at him. “Let me,” he said, his voice rough and desperate to his own ears. “Need it, need you,” he said, and he put his hands beneath the cheeks of Hutch’s ass, stroking the soft skin filling the curve of hands, spreading his fingers out further to feel more. Hutch leaned back away from him, into his touch, and Starsky brought a hand around to Hutch’s cock and jacked him once, twice, again, hard. Hutch closed his eyes and groaned.

“Ken?”

They froze.

“ _Ken?”_

Hutch pulled his trunks up with trembling hands, pushing Starsky gently away, turning around to face his father. He looked up just as Mr. Hutchinson’s hand crashed heavily into his face, knocking him back into the shed with a loud thud. Starsky had pulled his own trunks up and he stepped in front of Hutch, shielding him.

“You pack your fucking bags, boy,” Mr. Hutchinson said, pointing a shaking finger at him. “And get the hell out of my way.”

“Don’t, don’t—” Starsky said desperately. “Don’t hit him.”

Hutch put a hand on his shoulder. “You heard him. Get out of the way, Starsk.” The sun caught tears tracking down his face. He leaned against the shed and stared at his father, his face gone expressionless.

“You filthy little bastards,” Mr. Hutchinson swore, and suddenly his face went soft, unutterably sad. He blinked hard, then looked at his son again, the sunlight catching the pale blue eyes behind the glasses, matching his son’s eyes perfectly.

“You better tell this little pervert goodbye, Ken. It’s the last you’ll see of him.”

“Dad, no. Please, please no, he’s my best friend. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, just don’t make him go. Dad!” Hutch grabbed his father’s arms, and Mr. Hutchinson heaved him away, Hutch stumbling, falling. He rolled over and sat, staring down at the ground, chest heaving, wiping his eyes with a hand. Starsky ran to him, crouched down next to him, and behind him, Mr. Hutchinson was strangely silent.

“What are you gonna do, Dad?” Hutch yelled. “How’s he gonna get home?”

“I’ll worry about it after I get him away from here. From you.  _Now_.”

“Hutch, babe, I’m so sorry, so sorry this happened.”

“They’ll never let us see each other again, Starsk. I don’t know how I’m gonna live with that. What the fuck is really left?”

“Don’t you fucking say that, don’t you ever say that, swear it. Swear it.”

Hutch looked at him with hopeless eyes.

“Swear!”

“I swear. Okay, I swear.”

“We’ll find a way, Hutch. We have to. Hutch! Tell me you know that.”

Hutch shook his head slowly. “Don’t know what either of us is gonna do.”

“So what, you’re just giving in?”

“What the hell can we do? Nothing!”

Starsky stared at Hutch, his heart ramming his ribs in his chest. “No. You hear me _? No!_ ” He grabbed Hutch and held his shoulders with shaking hands.

Mr. Hutchinson grabbed Starsky’s arm. “Get your damned hands off my son, David.”

Hutch looked at Starsky and tried to smile. “Gotta go now. If you don’t he’ll be so fucking drunk in a little while he’ll probably throw you out on the road and leave you.”

“I’ve had  _enough_  from you this summer, Ken,” and Mr. Hutchinson grabbed at Starsky’s arm.

“Hutch—goddammit—”

“Go home, Starsky,” came the tired voice, and Starsky could barely hear anything else for the roaring in his head, the pounding of his heart.

Mr. Hutchinson pulled him bodily away. Hutch rolled over and pressed his face into the grass.

 

 

_-1975-_

“Starsky. Wake up.” Hutch sat down on the side of the bed, interrupting his room-pacing. “Hey. It’s okay, I’m here. Wake up,” Hutch said, gritting his teeth against the shakes.

Starsky sat up, bewildered. “Hutch?” He rubbed his eyes and Hutch rubbed his back.

“Bad dream,” Hutch said.

Starsky looked at him and shook his head. “You could have left. You didn’t.”

Hutch’s leg jittered involuntarily, shaking the bed, but he looked Starsky squarely in the eye. “Hate to tell you this, but Huggy’s been here the whole big half-hour you slept. He was here when you fell asleep, remember?”

“You got it, bro,” said Huggy, standing up from the chair. “And now that Mr. Sunshine has arisen again, I’m back down to business. You two need anything?”

“Hutch?” Starsky asked him.

Hutch didn’t bother answering.

“You know where I’m at,” said Huggy and walked to the door, closing it behind him.

Starsky yawned. “I, uh, think I’m supposed to be takin’ care of  _you._ ”

“Yeah well, whatever works,” Hutch said inanely. He got up, paced around the room twice, then sat back down on the side of the bed. He rubbed his thighs. “What was the dream about, anyway?”

“It, uh, it was . . . nothing. The past. ”

“What about it?” His fingers dug deeply into his thighs, clawing at the jogging pants he wore.

“What about it? The lake.” Starsky’s voice showed his irritation, and he tried to smooth it out. _Too fucking tired._

“And what about the lake?” Hutch asked.

“Jesus. You should be a detective. It was about us, all right? Us.”

Hutch looked at him sharply and smiled. “Us. You mean . . . us. Together?”

“I guess.”

“Long, long time ago. Ever miss it, Starsk?”

“I . . . like you said. Long time ago.”

“I loved you. You knew that, right?”

Starsky’s face shut down. “We don’t talk about this. Remember?”

Hutch ignored that. “You knew I did.”

It made Starsky sad. “Thought you did. Yeah.”

“So why’d you let him push you out?”

“What?”

“Dad said go, and you went. Right?”

“Hutch—”

“Everybody around there played games. Me, them. Everything was a lie, a pretty façade, and everything underneath was fucking rotten. Everything but you. You were always just . . . you. You were my sanity. You made sense. You gave half a shit, or so I thought.”

“You knew how I felt. You always did read me like a book.”

“Yeah. I thought I did,” Hutch said, resuming his pacing. He winced and leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back. He hit it against the wall, hard.

“Cut it out, Hutch!”

“Is this ever going to be over? Because I’m dying for a hit. The second you let me out I’m going for it. You need to get your head out of the sand and realize what’s going to happen.” He looked up at Starsky, his eyes tortured.

“Just gonna throw everything away, Hutch? Our partnership, friendship, everything we worked for?”

“It’s already gone. Junkie, remember?”

Starsky flinched at the words and sat up. “Are you in there anywhere, Hutch?”

Hutch looked at him and widened his eyes deliberately. “I don’t know, do you see me in here?” Starsky watched him but didn’t speak. “Doesn’t feel like it.” He sighed. “But my partner’s betting on it. The guy’s always taking sucker bets.”

“It’ll get better. You’ve got what it takes to stay off it once we get you clean. I remember that even if you don’t give a damn.”

“Don’t doubt it, huh?”

“No way.” Starsky settled back down on the bed.

“Never doubted me, either. How I felt? Back then?” Hutch sat back down on the bed beside him. His leg jumped.

“Not-not until it was over.”

“I thought about you all the time after you left.” Hutch tried to stretch out on the bed. It was hard because his body kept trying to draw up into a ball. He rolled over and looked at Starsky, then leaned over him. “The day we were in the bedroom, nobody else in the house. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. What are you up to?”

“You were naked, I was on top.” Hutch’s body moved closer, touched his in a long line of heat.

“This isn’t gonna get you anywhere, Hutch.”

“Don’t think I ever got over what happened between us. I sure as hell never found anyone that made me feel like that, you know?” Hutch’s voice was low.

“I loved you too, Hutch,” Starsky whispered. Couldn’t help it.

“I don’t want us to hurt anymore. Don’t want you to hurt, and I’m damned sure tired of it myself.” Hutch lowered his lips and pressed lightly, not moving, to Starsky’s mouth. Starsky closed his eyes and let himself feel it. Just for a moment.

He pushed Hutch off him and Hutch sagged back onto the bed. Starsky leaned over him. “I’m not getting you the damned heroin.”

“Yeah? Will you get me fucked?”

“Shit,” Starsky swore. He looked away, rubbing his eyes. “All this time we _don’t_  talk about us, or if—if it could ever be like that again. We’ve done what we can handle and we made it work for us and now you’re gonna use it against us?”

“I’m not using it against you,” Hutch whispered. “Just—remind me what it feels like to want something so much. Something else besides the damned smack.”

Starsky turned and looked him, eyes roving over his face, taking in the desperation. The misery.

“You wanted me to try. I’m trying,” Hutch said, and his voice was almost a plea.

Starsky couldn’t refuse. Didn’t want to. He brought his mouth down over Hutch’s, hard, demanding entry. Hutch’s mouth opened greedily, his body arching up on the bed, and Starsky pulled Hutch’s shirt up over his head swiftly, then his jogging pants. Hutch’s naked body was defenseless, pale, the purple bruises wounding his face and body. Starsky squeezed his eyes shut.

“Starsk?”

Starsky shook his head, leaned and kissed one of the bruises at the bottom of Hutch’s rib cage. Then another.

Hutch stirred uneasily, then pushed him away, his motions panicky. “Stop stop stopit—“

“What’s wrong? Hutch—”

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s face in his hands, then slid his body in under Starsky’s. “C’mon, Starsky,” he whispered. He reached for Starsky’s hand, put it over his cock. “That’s all you ever needed, right?” he asked, and there was something in his tone that Starsky couldn’t read, maybe something like loathing. “I need you to fuck me. Just fuck.”

Starsky grabbed his hips, restraining himself from shaking him. “That’s not what went down between us, before.”

Hutch watched him, his face gone impassive, eyes indifferent.

“You just want someone to fuck?” Starsky asked, voice rising, bitter. He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, then lay back down and kicked his shoes off, pulled off his socks. He raised his hips and pulled his jeans and underwear off. “Then go for it.”

“Yeah?”

“If that’s what you’re after.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, rubbing a hand over his stomach, then ran it down to stroke down his cock. “Stand up. Get off the bed.” Starsky stared up at him, at the hand on his cock, and Hutch reached down and squeezed his wrist. “Now. You’re my new drug substitute, Starsky. You gonna be good enough to keep me off the real thing?”

Starsky stood, slowly, and Hutch raised the hand he’d touched himself with and ran his tongue over it from wrist to palm to fingers, then thrust the ends of his fingers in his mouth. He put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder and turned him around so that Starsky’s back was against him and grabbed Starsky’s cock, jerking him roughly, his wet hand helping the slide of flesh. Starsky sagged back against him, gasping, and Hutch licked and sucked on his neck, then rubbed his face over Starsky’s skin.

Hutch ducked his head and spoke into Starsky’s ear. “It may not be what we had, but it’s good enough, isn’t it?” He ran his tongue over Starsky’s earlobe.

Starsky jerked his head up, away from Hutch’s touch. “Fuck you.”

“I’m trying.” Hutch moved his hand faster, up and down on Starsky’s dick, and Starsky pushed into it.

“C’mon, Hutch, what’re you waiting for?” he panted. Reaching back, he grabbed the back of Hutch’s neck, pulling him closer. “C’mon. I’m your goddamned substitute. Ready for the rush?”

Hutch wrapped a long hand over Starsky’s mouth, jerking his head back against his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, his voice harsh, and brought his fingers to his own mouth again, bathing them in spit. His wet fingers trailed down Starsky’s spine to his ass, pushed at Starsky’s asshole and plunged inside, no hesitation. Starsky staggered forward a little and groaned, and Hutch wrapped a hand around his jaw with the other hand while keeping his fingers moving. Gradually Starsky’s body relaxed and pushed back into Hutch’s touch.

Hutch’s hand moved to the back of Starsky’s head, pushing him violently off his shoulder and thrusting his body forward to bend him at the waist. Starsky heard him slicking himself, heard the sounds as he jerked himself. He pushed Starsky to the wall and Starsky braced against it, arms spread wide. Hutch’s hands grabbed his hips and he thrust inside him in one long hard stroke.

Starsky cried out, the tendons of his back and arms straining as he grabbed at the wall. Hutch held him there, panting, then pulled out a little. Then back in. Starsky’s head hit the wall and he moaned.

Hutch moved again, this time easier, slower. His fingers found a nipple and rubbed lightly over the hardened tip, back and forth. He wrapped his arms around Starsky’s middle. “Never could make you go away in my head, not in all these years.” His voice was so soft that Starsky nearly missed it. He dropped his head on Starsky’s shoulder.

“Hutch?”

He didn’t answer.

“What the hell, what’s wrong?”

“ _This_  is wrong.”

“Haven’t got it in you? C’mon,  _fuck_  me,” Starsky goaded, but his voice cracked.

Hutch shook his head against his shoulder.

“Giving it up to the heroin, huh? Just like you gave us up. Just like the memories you’ve been busy fucking up.” Starsky’s breath came in angry, hitching pants. “Giving up, giving in. You’re good at it.”

“Everybody else. Everything. Never gave up on us,” Hutch whispered.

“Then show me.”

Hutch’s hand brushed over the hair of his chest. He didn’t speak. His hands ran down Starsky’s sides, fingers wrapping around the curves he found.

“Show me, you gotta show me.” Starsky’s voice broke. “All I need, Hutch.”

And Hutch moved, pulling Starsky’s upper body against his, lips and tongue moving over his throat, over the scratchy jawline, pulling Starsky’s mouth up to his. It was an awkward angle but neither of them cared, kissing hard, starved and frantic. Hutch cupped his hand around Starsky’s balls, fingering, tugging, then moved to Starsky’s cock, stroking him, long strokes going shorter and harder. Starsky groaned and shifted forward, falling against the wall, and Hutch fucked him there, pinning him, his hand still working between Starsky’s legs. Starsky writhed, unable to bear the sensations. He threw his head back, calling out, cords standing out in his neck, coming, shouting, spurting onto the wall. Hutch yanked his body close and thrust one last powerful stroke, gasping, saying Starsky’s name in a soft voice, over and over. Starsky felt him pulsing inside.

Hutch sagged, legs starting to give, trapping Starsky against the wall. Starsky turned and half-dragged him to the bed. He sat down beside him, then lowered his mouth to his. Hutch put a hand behind Starsky’s head, fingers in his scalp, stroking, kissing him back.

Starsky pulled away. “Hutch. Look at me.”

Hutch opened his eyes lazily.

“You know I’m not big on holding back.”

Hutch snorted.

“I’ll just get right to the point.”

Hutch nodded, looking curious.

“You’re still recovering. Maybe we shouldn’t have done this, but we did. And I don’t want to go back.”

“You see what I am now. Right?” Hutch asked, a little of the hardness returning to his voice.

“Yeah, I see exactly who you are.” Hutch rolled his eyes, disbelieving, and Starsky pinned him with a look. “I’ve always seen who you are.”

Hutch cleared his throat. “You think I’m gonna get through this?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.”

“What do you want me to say, Starsk?”

“Nothin’ but this. There was a line you drew somewhere between you and me, back then. I tried hard to get past it, but everybody else was in the way, maybe. I don’t know. But this time you gotta let me in. All the way.”

“I wanted you in, Starsky. Just didn’t know how.”

“And now?”

“If you’re crazy enough to still want me, you got me. But I think you’re getting the short end of the deal.”

“All the way?”

Hutch laughed. “I think I just became the candy in someone’s candy store,” he said, looking over Starsky’s bright face. “You’re crazy, you know that?” He shook his head, then looked at Starsky a minute, quiet. He smiled, slow. A promise. “Oh, yeah. All the way.”

Starsky pounced, kissing him thoroughly.

When Hutch got his breath back, he gasped, “You’re one hell of a rush, did I tell you?”

Starsky threw back his head and laughed.

 

 

Monk lay draped across his car, dead, Coney on the ground, dead or unconscious, Starsky didn’t know. He’d mowed him down in the Torino.

And Hutch, well . . . he was up on a wall.

“What’s so funny?” Hutch asked, panting. The adrenaline had for the moment chased away the paralyzing exhaustion, and the glint in his eye dared Starsky to keep laughing. Which he did. Couldn’t help himself with Hutch perched up there on the wall like a big awkward bird.

“You want me to send out for lunch or you gonna come down from there, huh?” Starsky asked, shaking his head affectionately. “Come on, partner.” Hutch slipped long legs down over the side of the wall. He grunted the whole way down, and then his feet touched ground and he turned, falling into his surprised partner’s arms. Starsky staggered back as Hutch catapulted into him, and he laughed again.

And Hutch kissed him right there in the alleyway with everything he thought and felt and missed about his partner over the long years apart. Starsky thought maybe his lips were dislocated.

They parted for breath. “Gotta couple things we still need to take care of, Starsky. Then I’m gonna show you what you’ve been missing.”

Starsky kissed him again. “Never again.”

“Never again  _what_?”

“Never gonna miss you again, dummy. Won’t have to.”

“Uh-uh,” Hutch said and pushed him against the wall, eating him up.

 

 

Epilogue

 

_-1983-_

_Letter from Richard Hutchinson’s personal effects_

 

Hutch—

You didn’t talk to me when I called. At first I believed your mom when she said you didn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t have believed your dad, but your mom ... I don’t know. I’ve thought about it a lot since then and I still don’t know for sure. I don’t know if they’ll let you read this or even if you want to.

Shit. I don’t know anything.

People would call us names if they knew, hell, they’ve already called us both names for the stuff between us, but fuck it. I know what I feel. I’m saying it to you now, so listen to it. Believe it.

I don’t care what anybody thinks of us. I’m not sorry. I’d do it all over again.

I know you, you dumb ass weasel doubter-you’re sitting there thinking something Grade A stupid. Aren’t you? Uh-huh. Nod your head, that’s right. Like maybe, “Easy for him to say, we’re not even in the same state anymore, no skin off his back to spout this shit.” I even hear that tone you get, saying it. But I wouldn’t lie to you, Hutch. And there’d be no point in it, anyway, but I know how hard it is for you to believe in things sometimes.

I miss you lots. Going crazy with it.

Anyway, I was thinking. Yeah, who knew, me think? Asshole—why do I think I need you so bad when I can say all your parts just fine without you?

Anyway, what you said about us being cops-I know, I know I made fun of it, but I’ve changed my mind. I thought about it and I think you’re right.

See, I can admit it when you’re right, it just hardly ever happens, o.k.?

But I think you’re onto something there. We could be cops, catch the bad guys, put them away. Think we’d be good at it. Maybe I could catch the kind of guys who killed my dad. Think maybe if there’d been a really good cop working his case, someone who wanted the truth, we’d have found out what really happened, you know?

I’m tired of feeling like ... like nothing special. Or just nothing. You’re the only person makes me feel any different. So maybe being a cop, taking care of the stuff that counts, maybe that makes a difference, huh? I hope so. I know you believe it, and I think I can believe it.

I know it’s bad there. All you got to do is call me, tell me you want me there and I will be. I’ll find a way. You know I will. I swear it.

Just one word from you, Hutch. All I need.

Answer me, will you? Don’t want to lose you.

And hold on.

Love,

Starsky

 

 


End file.
